


Storm Front

by thegraytigress



Series: Heart of the Storm [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Drama, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, Pregnancy, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-03-31 08:32:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 290,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3971131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cost they pay for being Avengers may be too much to bear. With the birth of the twins only weeks away, an accident on the battlefield puts Steve's life in grave danger. Faced with the terrifying prospect of losing him, Natasha finds strength she didn't know she had and the courage to keep her faith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, The Avengers,_ and _Avengers: Age of Ultron_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.
> 
>  **RATING:** M (for language, violence, adult situations)
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Welcome, everyone! Here we begin part five and the last of part of _Heart of the Storm_. This story is the direct sequel to "Cloud Cover" and the first of the second arc of HotS. I highly recommend you read the first arc ("Heat Wave", "Red Rain", "Terminal Frost", and "Cloud Cover") before starting this story, but you probably can follow along without it. 
> 
> So, in case you don't know where you are exactly, this story is strong, established Steve/Natasha with the rest of the Avengers in support. There will be some mentions/explorations of Tony/Pepper, Thor/Jane, and Bruce/Betty. Warnings for the usual sorts of things I write. We are very firmly in AU territory (obviously), and I'm combining things from MCU and the comics alike with my own creations. I'm altering my writing style just a tad to encompass more points of view, given the wide variety of characters we have now. Enjoy, and thanks for reading!

Natasha awoke to the terribly unpleasant sensation of one of the twins kicking her.  She grimaced, groaned, and tried to resettle herself into a more comfortable position.  That was essentially impossible because comfort had gone straight out the window weeks ago.  There was no such thing.  Not when she was eight months pregnant.  Not with all two hundred fifty some odd pounds of her husband’s muscle-bound body practically sprawled on top of her.

And not when she needed to get to the bathroom.

_Right now._

“Steve, get off me,” she ordered.  Nothing.  His arm was securely over her waist, curled around the prominent bulge of her belly.  She lay on her left side (the only side on which she could sleep somewhat easily at this point) with him pressed against her back and curled around her and overheating her like a furnace.  She huffed an annoyed sigh, the discomfort in her bladder getting worse by the second.  “Steve.  Wake up.”  He responded by groaning and holding her tighter.  “Rogers!”  She elbowed him lightly in the midriff, which earned her half of another groan but not much else.  Irritated, she grabbed his arm by the wrist and shoved it off her.  Pushing the rest of him away, she swung her legs out of their bed, stuffed her feet into her slippers, and levered herself up.  Then she _ran_ as fast as she could to the bathroom.

Once she was done with that (thank God she made it), she padded back into their bedroom to find he’d spread himself out on their bed rather diagonally, half on her side and half on his own.  He was sound asleep and…  “Damn it, Rogers.”  … _completely_ filthy.  It looked like ash and soot and dried mud, and it was in his hair and on his hands and streaked all over his bare torso and thighs.  There were dirt smudges all over their once pristine white sheets as well.  She sighed, spotting now the pieces of his grime covered uniform strewn in a trail from the door of the bedroom to the bed.  His precious shield was dumped on the floor, and if that wasn’t a testament as to how tired he’d been, she didn’t know what was.  A quick glance over his prone form revealed he wasn’t hurt, at least nothing beyond bruises and scrapes.  He was just a mess.  And snoring.  And an _idiot_.

She didn’t know if she wanted to kiss him for being so annoyingly cute or wake him to tell him he needed to clean this up.  She sighed and decided on neither.  And it was obvious she wasn’t going back to bed, not with him taking up the entire mattress, so she grabbed her robe, slipped it on over her pajamas, and went in search of something to fill her already rumbling stomach.

In the last four months since they’d stopped HYDRA and the Red Room, things had settled considerably into this _state_ they were in now.  Natasha couldn’t really describe it as anything else.  The Avengers were very much becoming a team in a true sense of the word, perhaps what they would have been after the Battle of New York two years ago if they hadn’t split apart.  Stark Tower had been renamed to Avengers Tower, the “A” logo on the side bright and brilliant for all of the world to see.  A fairly massive remodeling, all designed and funded by Tony Stark himself, was underway almost continually.  Labs were being built.  Weapons and equipment rooms constructed.  The command center Tony had commissioned before SHIELD had fallen had been updated, enhanced with even bigger and better technology that could bring information from across the world right to their literal fingertips in an immersive holographic experience.  The Tower had been outfitted with an upgraded arc reactor that was capable of handling the new energy demands, and the computing cluster had also been improved to the point where they were perhaps sitting on the most powerful processor in the world.  All of that was run by JARVIS, Stark’s AI.  More than that, the Tower was being fitted for more living spaces as well.  Floors for each of the Avengers.  Communal kitchens and dining areas.  Training rooms and a state-of-the-art athletic facility that made what SHIELD had had down in DC look like the neighborhood gym.  Extravagance and elegance and so much wealth.  It was remarkable.

And it wasn’t simply their surroundings that were coming together.  The team itself seemed to be figuring each other out.  This random group of disparate talents and personalities that had been thrust together a handful of times in order to save the world was now finding its footing.  Captain America was their de facto leader; this had been somewhat silently decided upon even back in the Battle of New York, and during the fiasco with Omega Red a few months back, it had been reaffirmed.  This was not to say that everyone was simply obedient to his commands; it was a work in progress, to be certain.  Sam was a soldier, and thus Falcon had no problems obeying Captain America’s orders in the field (or off it, for that matter).  In fact, it was unlikely there’d ever been another man so loyal, so willing to follow someone else he’d deemed trustworthy and true.  And Clint was _something_ of a soldier, though as an ex-SHIELD agent he’d gotten used to operating with less oversight and more of his own discretion, particularly when it came to matters of morals and ethics.  He didn’t bend quite so easily to that, that civilian lives and reducing collateral damage was always at the top of the Avengers’ objectives, but he was learning.

Stark and Thor, however, were another matter entirely.  Thor was the crown prince of Asgard, and he exuded power and prestige without even trying.  He was certainly used to being at the top of the proverbial chain of command in his own realm.  He’d been tasked ( _long_ tasked) by his father with protecting the peace and security of the universe, and that was a duty he took very seriously.  Therefore, it seemed a tad silly to think he’d come to earth and abide by the wishes of a mere mortal.  Still, he was making an admirable effort to do so.  Before he’d been exiled to Midgard almost two years ago, he’d been brash and arrogant, nonchalant and extremely confident in his own abilities being sufficient to contend with any situation.  Now, though, his time among men (and his love for Jane Foster, an astrophysicist who’d on occasion been to the Tower over the last few months) had tempered his ego and impulsiveness.  He was strong, far stronger than even Iron Man and Captain America, and an indispensable ally (even if he was a tad loud, a bit overbearing, and mostly ignorant of the simple Midgardian customs and colloquialisms that the rest of the team simply took for granted, even Steve).  And he was driven, having forsaken his place as the future heir to the Asgardian throne to stay on Midgard in an attempt to right the many grievous wrongs done by his adopted brother, Loki.  That alone was reason enough for him to defer to Steve’s leadership, though it wasn’t the only reason.  Thor was proving himself to be not only a fine teammate but a good friend as well.

Tony, on the other hand…  Well, for being the one of the group who’d pushed for the Avengers to become a permanent fixture in the defense of the world, he also seemed to be the one having the most trouble with adjusting to the reality of it.  He was funding this project, designing and building and developing with flare and gusto, but when it came to actually embracing this idea of a team environment, his behavior was somewhat (honestly, _usually_ ) contradictory and inflammatory.  Tony Stark did not like being told what to do.  He didn’t care for orders or for conformity.  He thrived in a state of perpetual chaos, lived by the seat of his pants, obsessed over his interests to the detriment of almost everything else at times.  He was extravagant, _unbelievably_ wealthy, and though his near-death experience with Extremis and the Mandarin not long ago had eased some of his inability to deal with people, it hadn’t cured him of it.  He had lived a tough life, having inherited a legacy of weapons development that turned out to be a rather ugly one when he’d finally made himself look at it.  He’d lost his parents at a young age, and though his relationship with Howard Stark had been strained, their deaths had impacted him in ways that even he didn’t seem to realize.  He’d been kidnapped and tortured, a traumatic experience that had birthed Iron Man but still plagued him to this day with nightmares and unresolved anxiety.  He’d nearly died saving the city during the Battle of New York.  He was one of the smartest, and definitely the most successful, men in the world, and beneath all the flare and wit and power, he was insecure and suffering.  Pepper Potts, his longtime girlfriend and CEO of Stark Industries, was helping a great deal to ground him and mitigate these rough ( _rough_ ) edges.  And, in some ways, having the Avengers as both a project and as teammates and friends was helping, too.  But he was still a loose cannon, a bit unpredictable and acidic, and that made for tension.  It didn’t help that he was paying for everything but Steve was calling the shots.  They were friends, but they were so completely different in ideologies and personalities that it was like oil and water sometimes.  Still, no one could deny that Tony was trying.  Most of the time.

Sometimes too hard, even.  As Natasha walked into the communal kitchen that was down a floor from the suite she shared with Steve, she spotted a mussed head of dark brown hair bowed over a cup of steaming coffee and a few StarkPads.  Stark looked to be half asleep, his posture slumped.  “What are you doing up?” she asked as she came closer.

Tony lifted his head.  He was as exhausted as Natasha had expected, but his eyes were somehow always so sharp, even when they were this bleary.  “Good morning to you, too, Red,” he grumbled.  He was dressed in the outfit that he typically wore under his armor, form fitting on the top in different shades of complementing gray, looser black pants on the bottom.  He seemed like he was in need of a shower and about twelve solid hours of sleep.  Instead he was making do with coffee and adrenaline.  “You’re looking radiant this morning.  And waddle-y.”  Natasha glared at him as she made her way over to the kitchen behind the breakfast bar where Tony was sitting.  Never mind that he was right; she was waddling like a damn penguin, and she had been for weeks.  “And how’s the family doing on this fine, new day?”

“Rowdy.”  Tony grunted something that sounded like a chuckle.  Natasha smiled faintly, reaching for the orange juice in the stainless steel refrigerator.  She poured herself a glass and took a Danish from the tray that someone had brought up earlier that morning.  The Tower was fully equipped left and right with state-of-the-art kitchens, but she’d yet to see _anyone_ actually cook anything.  Normally she wasn’t a great lover of breakfast pastries, but she felt hungry enough to eat anything, so she set it on a plate and came over to Stark.  She eyed his cup of coffee jealously.  Bruce had recommended giving up caffeine weeks ago, and she had, but it hadn’t been easy (or pleasant).  Just the smell of it had her jonesing for a fix like an addict.  “You didn’t answer my question.”

Tony took a sip of his coffee before leaning back on his stool, stretching his arms.  Natasha couldn’t help that her eyes went right to his chest, to where the arc reactor had once been.  Despite having essentially lived with him for a few months now and all of the action and chaos they’d shared in the weeks before that, she hadn’t got quite used to the idea of it being gone.  It had been so much a symbol of who Stark had been that he didn’t seem quite _whole_ without it.  He groaned when his shoulder popped and settled back forward.  “Waiting for Pep.  She’s back from Malibu.  Happy’s driving her here.”  He widened his eyes, like he was trying to stay awake and refocus himself.  “And I thought I’d look through all of this crap before your dear husband calls for the inevitable debrief this afternoon.”

Natasha eased herself up onto the stool.  God, it shouldn’t be this difficult to move.  Tony watched her with an amused smirk on his face that she frankly wanted to wipe right off of it.  More so than any of the other _men_ she was dealing with on a daily basis, he found the idea of her this pregnant to be endlessly entertaining.  Maybe it was because she was pretty damn sure he was terrified of her on some (and probably more than one) level and seeing her like this was a comfort to him.  Maybe he was trying to make light of it to make her feel better or make this somehow all seem normal and commonplace (which it wasn’t).  Maybe he was just an ass.  But she was getting a tad tired of being the butt of every joke, of the sniggering behind her back.  It wasn’t like she was oblivious (or even pleased) about how she looked now.  She was eight months pregnant.  There was no escaping that.  No ignoring it or forgetting it.  She couldn’t move quickly or easily (which for her, who’d been trained since childhood to use her body as a weapon, was pretty upsetting).  She felt like she was either constantly eating or running to the bathroom.  _Nothing_ fit right.  She couldn’t sleep anymore, at least not for more than a couple of hours at a time.  Her body was _betraying_ her in every way imaginable.  And, worse than that, her emotions were a continual hellish rollercoaster with which she couldn’t stand living (and she knew she wasn’t the only one).  The life she’d lived as an assassin had been so well regulated.  No emotion.  No conscience or free thought.  She’d felt nothing.  Now she felt _everything_ , wildly and unpredictably so.

No, there was no hiding the fact that she was _this_ pregnant.  Nothing could possibly change the fact that she had Captain America’s two strong, healthy, _incredibly_ active children growing inside her.

The twins were due in a month.  _Less_ than a month.

In less than a month, she was going to become a mother.

She was trying not to think about it.

Steve was overly supportive, of course.  He’d been nothing but, doing anything and everything to ease her mind and body as the inevitability of it all loomed closer and closer.  He’d been sweet and chivalrous, rubbing her muscles when the aches got to be too much, weathering her mood swings (which typically vacillated from colder than the coldest pits of Jotunheim, as Thor said, to viciously angry to outright weeping), and fetching her anything her heart desired (she’d promised herself she wasn’t going to give into the typical pregnancy nonsense, but her body had had other ideas.  So cravings were in, chocolate and spicy things mostly.  And aching feet and a tired back and so many damn hormones that she hardly knew up from down sometimes).  Even the power of the super soldier serum that was thrumming in the twins and thus in her couldn’t completely erase the discomforts of pregnancy.  He’d put up with all of it like a champ, nary a complaint from his lips as he balanced leading a team of superheroes with dealing with a moody, pregnant wife.  That made it worse, in a way.  They’d been married for only a few months, but she felt more reliant on him now than ever before.  Perhaps she was being overly sensitive, and the shock of so rapidly transforming from an Avenger and the world’s best spy to what she was now had taken its toll on her.  Before she and Steve had been partners, equals, complements in the field.  They’d been friends and lovers.  Now she felt like she was a burden to him, even though he never said anything or acted in a way to support her fears.  That frustrated her, which in turn caused her to become _more_ emotional…  It was a vicious cycle, and he was caught in the middle.

It was a lot to ask both of them.  They’d been partners for SHIELD for almost a year before they’d fallen in love during a disastrous mission that had taken Natasha too close to her dark and dangerous past.  And they’d been dating (for lack of a better term) for a couple of months after that before Natasha had unexpectedly learned she was pregnant.  She hadn’t thought it possible; the Red Room where she’d been trained had chemically sterilized her.  But it had happened.  Steve had been gone at the time, hunting down the Winter Soldier, and their relationship had been in shambles.  It had taken a hellish nightmare to bring them back together again.  Despite all the damage done to them both during SHIELD’s collapse, they’d been more affirmed in their love for each other than ever before.  Steve had asked her to marry him.  She’d said yes.  Now they were essentially newlyweds, still navigating this new, tender phase of their relationship, and faced with impending parenthood on top of that.

And he was Captain America.  She was Black Widow.  They were Avengers.  Well, one of them still was.  The other was watching from the sidelines and _hating_ every moment of it.

She’d apparently fallen into something of a reverie, because Tony was watching her in surprise.  And a bit of worry.  For all the teasing he’d done (and he’d done a lot), she knew he (and all the rest of them) were worried about her.  Worried about how she was handling this.  Worried about how she was watching Steve and the rest of the team go out and risk their lives without being able to help.  Worried about how fresh all the pain from SHIELD’s collapse and the disaster in Russia was.  Worried about how she was dealing with the huge and imminent change to her life.  She didn’t like worry.  “Penny for your thoughts?” Tony said.  “I have about a googolplex of them, so I can spare one.”

Natasha brushed it aside, grabbing for her Danish and taking a bite.  She sucked down the entire glass of orange juice before she even realized she was drinking it.  “Did you guys find anything last night at least?”

Tony sighed.  If he was at all bothered by her brushing aside his concerns, he didn’t show it.  “Not much.  Another futile raid.  I mean, don’t get me wrong.  We kicked the shit out of them.  Total extermination.  But did we hit the jackpot?  No.  Whatever they were doing there, it was long gone.”  Natasha scowled a little at that.  She’d known the mission in Kosovo had ended with everyone well and accounted for because she’d stayed up last night with Hill in the command center, watching and waiting until the all-clear had come in from Steve.  She’d hoped they’d found something.  It was frustrating that they hadn’t.  Recovering Loki’s scepter was really turning into quite the massive quest.  Since uniting again to stop the Red Room and HYDRA from flooding the United States with the insanity serum, the Avengers had been eliminating HYDRA bases across the globe one at a time.  So far, aside from a few hints here and there of SHIELD’s many stolen secrets and weapons potentially resurfacing, they’d been returning from each mission woefully empty-handed.  “But maybe in this pile of data I downloaded from their servers there are some answers.  That’s the hope, anyway.  You got any plans today?  I mean, other than holding down the fort.  Literally.”

Natasha glared at him.  “You couldn’t resist.”

Tony flashed his best shit-eating grin.  “Nope.”

She shook her head.  “I’m supposed to meet Banner in an hour.  Then no.”

“Well, if you want in on sifting through seventy years’ worth of evil plots for relevant tidbits, be my guest.  The data’s on the mainframe.”  The prospect of spending some time doing something more useful than sitting around and _waiting_ sounded absolutely fantastic.  “What are you seeing the good doctor for?”

“Check-up.”

“Ah.  Time to stick a fork in it and see if it’s done?”

“You know there are a dozen ways that I could kill you right now, and believe me, I can still manage every one of them,” she said with a sweet smile.

Tony actually blanched.  Thankfully, he was spared her wrath by his most faithful servant (and the only one in the Tower who was programmed to put up with his bullshit).  “Sir,” JARVIS’ voice gently interrupted, “Miss Potts has arrived.  She is on her way up to the penthouse.”

“That’s my cue,” Tony said.  He chugged the rest of his coffee, wincing at the burn most likely, before grabbing his tablets.  “Off to do my duties.  If you catch my drift.”

Natasha rolled her eyes.  “Caught it.”

“Tell Rogers that I’m not doing any kind of meeting until this afternoon.  Like _late_ this afternoon.”  Stark walked off, limping just a little.

Natasha watched him go until he was down the hall.  She turned back to her half-eaten Danish, feeling unnerved and uncertain for reasons she couldn’t really explain.  Then one of the twins kicked her hard, as though he or she was reminding her to feed them.  She grimaced, rubbing her palm over the top of her belly.  _“Terpeniye,_ ” she lightly chastised.  She didn’t talk to them much; it didn’t feel right, didn’t come naturally to her, and it made everything too real.  But whenever she did, whenever she was alone and allowed herself that weakness, she always did it in Russian.  It was stupid to think that made it private or secret; Steve was fluent in Russian.  So was Clint.  And JARVIS could certainly translate should he be listening (and Natasha was fairly certain the AI kept tabs on everyone in the Tower).  Yet it made her feel like it was special, something only she shared with them (which was silly – she was the only one sharing anything with them at the moment).   _“Terpeniye.”_   Another series of movements under her palm seemed to be a response, and she couldn’t help but smile just a little.  _Be patient._ She finished her breakfast and went to get ready.

* * *

If the Avengers were coming together, they were certainly doing it without Black Widow.  And she wasn’t the only one.

Natasha walked into Bruce Banner’s lab near the top of the Tower.  The morning light was streaming through the windows that ran the length from the floor to the ceiling.  It seemed unnaturally cheery, the first few warmer days of spring bringing a clear, blue sky and a bright sun.  She walked deeper inside the lab, various holographic displays depicting numbers, charts, and diagrams of things she couldn’t even begin to understand.  Over the last few months, she’d quickly come to realize that Bruce was always in the middle of something or other, a project or paper, and he thrived in being embroiled in his work.  Like Tony, he tended to obsess, to sink so deeply into one thing to the exclusion of all else.  In fact, he and Stark were similar in so many ways that it had been inevitable that they’d hit it off so well.  Unlike Tony, however, Bruce tended to dwell on his mistakes and to keep himself as small and unassuming as possible to avoid confrontation.  That made sense, given who he was and what he’d done.  Every time she came here, she felt like a little bit like someone trying to bring a hermit out of his cave.  “Doctor Banner?” she called, tentatively stepping through an annex to a larger area filled with lab benches, beakers, and vials.  The equipment was sleek-looking and extremely expensive, and she couldn’t imagine what any of it did.  “Bruce?”

A rolling chair squeaking resounded through the airy room, and Bruce suddenly appeared around the corner of a table.  He wore a gray Oxford shirt under a lab coat and jeans.  His glasses reflected the light from the computer displays around him, and his salt and pepper hair was curled into its usual mussed and unkempt state.  She had to admit; he did have a bit of a mad scientist vibe to him.  “Oh, Natasha.  Hi.”

“You seem surprised to see me,” she commented.  “Didn’t we agree to meet now?”

Bruce didn’t seem to process that.  “I just thought since the team got in so late last night that you’d want to sleep.  And don’t you want Steve here?”

Natasha had considered sleeping more after going back to her suite and finding Steve still snoring lightly and sprawled across their bed.  Instead she’d taken pity on him, picked up the mess he’d left, and covered him in the duvet before shuffling off to shower and dress.  “He’s seen it before,” she said with a bit of a shrug, and that was true enough.  Steve loved to be part of this.  He was enamored with it, with seeing the twins, feeling them move under his hand.  He found everything about it absolutely amazing, but he _had_ seen it before numerous times and it was simply routine, even if she was getting close to the end of the pregnancy.  He was excited, much more so than her.  She noticed it constantly, even if he was doing his best to rein it in.  She was excited, too, when she could admit it to herself.

Still, she wanted to get this over with.  She’d never been terribly comfortable about these visits, and now with the end coming closer she was even less.  At a kick and flutter inside, she rubbed her hand gently over her protruding belly.  The twins were on the move again, like they could sense her anxiety. “Let’s just do it.”

Bruce glanced between her stomach and her face.  “Alright.  Come on.”  He led her to the usual place deeper in his lab, carrying a couple of his StarkPads.  Tony had set up something of a mini-medical room in the rear of the area.  It was nowhere near the breadth of what was in the Tower’s infirmary, and Natasha was the only one who ever used it, like this was her private OB-GYN or some such nonsense.  He came inside and took his lab coat off.  “JARVIS, can you tint the windows?”

“Of course, Doctor Banner.”  The glass went opaque, helping to reduce the blinding illumination and add a sense of privacy.

Bruce rolled his sleeves up.  “So…”  He offered something of a timid smile.  At least, to the untrained eye it might seem timid.  Natasha knew now that Bruce had a snarky side to him.  Inexplicably they’d become something of an odd couple over the last few months.  Early on the team had decided (which Natasha found utterly laughable – this was her body and these were her children, so her opinion was the only one that really mattered) that bringing a stranger in to care for babies as special as Captain America’s offspring was completely out of the question.  Fortunately for them, Natasha had agreed, and this ad hoc and convenient arrangement of Bruce serving as Natasha’s doctor that had formed during the crisis four months ago had simply continued.  Bruce kept continually reminding everyone that this wasn’t his field of expertise, but he’d taken his newfound role very seriously, teaching himself what he needed to know practically overnight.  Bruce’s intellectual prowess and attention to detail were staggering; he was a genius in every sense of the word, perhaps even more so than Tony.  Of all the things about which Natasha was concerned, the quality of her medical care was not one of them.

So they’d been spending quite a bit of time together.  More than the medical relationship, though, they shared the common bond of sitting everything out.  The Avengers were out avenging in full force, mission after mission, caught up in the whirlwind of building a new headquarters and forming a new world order.  Natasha had been sidelined immediately.  She’d argued in the beginning that she could still fight or at least provide in-field support, but Steve had adamantly refused.  She hadn’t been pleased with that, but he was her captain, her husband, and the father of her children, so this was one order she’d really had to follow.  Bruce, on the other hand, had grounded himself.  His control over the Hulk had always been a source of discomfort and unease for everyone.  When Natasha had been sent by Nick Fury to recruit him in India three years ago, she’d been terrified of him (and rightly so).  She hadn’t known Banner then, only the rumors of the monster inside him.  While the Hulk was uncontrollable, unstoppable, and fed by rage, Bruce was quiet, mellow, and slow to anger.  His fears over losing his composure weren’t unfounded.  Whatever tenuous peace he might have made with his situation after the Battle of New York had been utterly smashed by the incident with the insanity serum.  They’d been lucky the Hulk’s fury had been contained to one warehouse in New Jersey.  It could have been so much worse.  That sad fact had shaken Bruce deeply, and he refused to join the team, even during the fights where having the Hulk would have been beneficial.  Simply put, he was terrified of causing an incident.  He’d even rejected the idea of acting as Natasha’s doctor at first, like his mere presence was a threat (which was nonsense).  Regardless, as the team went out to save the world, the pregnant ex-assassin and the scientist with breath-taking anger management issues were left behind to watch, wait, and worry.

“Odd couple” didn’t really describe that.  And despite the relative intimacy of their newfound situation, neither of them was particularly open or forthcoming, so she still didn’t know much about Bruce, about who he was beneath his myriad issues concerning the Hulk.  She supposed it was possible that that was all he was.  Lord knew that was defining enough, the weight of having accidentally birthed a monster of that magnitude out of his own mind, body, curiosity, and ambition.  She’d discovered some things over these last few months, though.  He was kind and compassionate.  Sarcastic, with a dry wit and a sharp tongue, when it suited him.  He had self-esteem issues, and they were strange ones.  When it came to the Hulk, he absolutely blamed himself.  He blamed his nature, faulted his attitudes, despised his weaknesses.  But when it came to his ideas, his science (which perhaps could have been as much at fault for the Hulk’s creation as he was), he was almost arrogant.  Infallible.  Again, this reminded her of Stark.  He thought of himself as the monster, but she knew better than anyone that nothing was ever that simple.  Or that immutable.  He was hiding in the Tower just like she was, maybe for different reasons, but in the end they were very much the same.  She was realizing that more and more.

“Natasha?”

“What?”

He smiled again.  “Did you hear what I asked?”

Apparently she’d drifted again.  Concentrating was becoming more of a challenge as of late.  “Sorry.”  She came to the examination bed and climbed up onto it.  That required far more effort than it should have, and with the weight of the twins on her lungs and diaphragm, she found herself a tad breathless when she laid back.

“I just wanted to know how you’re feeling.”  It was the same question with which he started every one of these little check-ups.

And she gave the same answer.  “Fine.”  He nodded and went about his usual routine.  Checking her blood pressure.  Giving a quick, general examination.  JARVIS was logging the results for him.  Natasha tried to relax as he felt around her stomach.  Despite everything, this still made her uncomfortable.  She doubted there was anything in the world that would ever erase that.

“Any contractions?” Bruce asked.

He’d been asking that more and more.  “No,” she lied.

“You’ll probably start experiencing some.  Most pregnancies with multiples don’t make it to full-term.  But, then, this isn’t most pregnancies.”  He smiled wanly; he knew how much she didn’t like to be reminded of that.  With the super soldier serum involved, nothing was certain.  Beyond knowing the serum was in her blood, they had no idea how much the babies had been affected by it.  By all accounts, they seemed perfectly healthy.  Amply sized for twins at this stage of development and strong.  In fact, the pregnancy itself had proceeded without a single hiccup, let alone a complication.  Considering both of their parents were enhanced, Bruce had suggested an amniocentesis early on to get a better idea of their genetic make-up, but Natasha had declined.  She could see how curious he was, how much he (and Stark, for that matter) wanted to know, but in all honesty, she didn’t.  The trauma of the Red Room and HYDRA hunting her down to take her and her unborn children was too fresh, too near.  There wasn’t a government or organization, corrupt or otherwise, that wouldn’t do everything in its power to get a hold of Captain America’s children, and they all knew it.  What even well-intentioned people could do with the babies was disturbing, and if evil got a hold of them…  The mere thought was horrifying, and she didn’t want to face it.

There were a lot of things she didn’t want to face, apparently.  Like the contractions she knew she was having.  Like the fact that Bruce smiled and said, “I think one of them is definitely head down.  If that’s the case, you might not go too much longer.”

“Great,” Natasha remarked, trying to hide the fact that that terrified her.  Maybe she should have had Steve come.  She always felt so much better about all of this with him there supporting her.

Bruce wheeled an ultrasound cart over.  Natasha lifted her blouse and averted her eyes from the huge swell in her stomach.  It was hard to see it sometimes.  Instead she looked at the stool on which Bruce had been sitting where he’d left his StarkPad.  As he fired up the machine and warmed up the gel, she changed the subject.  “Who’s Veronica?”

The question clearly took him aback.  “What?”

“Veronica.  Who is she?”

“Oh.  Oh, that’s nothing.”  He set the gel and the probe down fast to grab the pad and turn it so she couldn’t see it anymore.

Natasha couldn’t help herself when she saw the flustered blush climbing onto Bruce’s face.  “Girlfriend?”

Bruce’s expression tightened, like this wasn’t a welcomed topic of conversation.  “No, not a girlfriend.”  He pulled the tablet away from his chest to look down on it.  His eyes glazed for a moment with something she couldn’t quite read.  Then he shut the computer off and set it on top of his lab coat.  “Just something Tony and I are working on.”  He went back to the ultrasound cart.  “Something that we’re thinking about building.”

“Something named for a girlfriend, though,” Natasha went on, curious and not willing to give up.  Bruce grimaced, fiddling with the controls in a move that could only be classified as diversionary.  “Come on, Bruce.  I’m laying here eight months pregnant with my dignity hanging by a thread.  I think you’re the last one who needs to feel exposed.”

“It’s named in honor of someone I know, yes,” he conceded.

“A girlfriend.”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”  Playing this game was familiar enough and empowering.  “Who is she?”  Bruce said nothing for another long moment with a pained expression pinching his face, and now she really considered dropping the conversation.  Obviously he didn’t want to talk about it, and truth be told, some part of her was still intimidated (actually it was frightened) by him.  He seemed to have his emotions under control so well all of the time, but she’d seen him at his worst.  She’d seen him come after her and go after Steve, huge and roaring and insane with fury.  It wasn’t a pretty picture.

But he surprised her.  “She is… was my girlfriend.  Not Veronica but the person I named it for.”  His tone was soft and spoke of so many things.  Regret.  Grief.  Anger.  “I, uh…  We don’t see each other anymore.  Obviously.”

Natasha was fairly certain she knew to whom Bruce was referring.  Elizabeth Ross, the daughter of General Thaddeus “Thunderbolt” Ross, the man who’d overseen the disastrous attempt to recreate the super soldier serum with Gamma radiation that had ended in Bruce’s accident.  Betty, as she’d preferred to be called, was another scientist who’d been involved with the project, according to SHIELD’s files.  “Why not?”

Bruce stared at her incredulously.  “You’re really going to ask that question?”

Natasha cocked an eyebrow.  “Was it her choice or yours?”

“You’re _really_ going to ask that question,” he said again.  “Mine.  Could we not talk about this?”  He squirted the gel on Natasha’s belly and went to work.

Natasha shifted uncomfortably.  “Maybe you should–”

“No.”

She wasn’t deterred.  “Might be good to go out for a bit instead of hanging around, reinforcing your own hang-ups with Stark.”  That might have normally been a demeaning thing to say, particularly between two people who didn’t know each other that well, but she kept her voice even and unobtrusive.

Bruce wasn’t insulted, but he gave a short, not entirely amused laugh.  Another thing she’d learned about him was that he didn’t stand for bullshit and was entirely capable of and comfortable with calling people out on it.  “Really?  That, coming from someone who hasn’t left the Tower in four months?  That might not be the most hypocritical piece of advice I’ve ever been given, but it’s up there.”

Natasha inwardly bristled.  As of yet, the public hadn’t figured out that she was pregnant, though it was fairly common knowledge that she was married to Captain America.  After her heroics during the battle against Omega Red, she’d practically gone into hiding, and speculation was flying as the Avengers had already fought a few very visible battles since then and the media had noticed she hadn’t been with the team.  As much as the idea of giving birth and being a mother frightened her, the idea of people finding out disturbed her equally so.  “It’s not safe,” she returned indignantly.

“Sure, it’s not,” he said, setting the probe to her stomach.  “And since when are my hang-ups part of our little meetings?”

“Since now.  Since you need to get out.”

Deflection was a tried and true defense mechanism, not just common to the two of them but to all of the Avengers.  It was a small wonder they ever got anything accomplished.  “You know, maybe you should have Steve take you out somewhere before the twins are born.  On a date, maybe.  Might be your last chance for a while.”

She scoffed.  “Are you reading baby books?”

“Actually, Ms. Romanoff, it was I who found that tidbit of advice,” JARVIS admitted.  Once early on in the Avengers living at the Tower, the AI had made the mistake of calling her “Mrs. Rogers”.  Needless to say he hadn’t again.  “It came from a recently published article in a parenting magazine.  I agree that it might serve as both a last opportunity for some quality time with Captain Rogers before a major adjustment and an enjoyable distraction from your concerns.”

Natasha sighed, holding her shirt up higher and Bruce started sweeping the ultrasound probe.  “I don’t think we’ve ever been on a date,” she returned grumpily, annoyed at the implication that she _had_ concerns.  “Ever.”  And that was true.  Their courtship had been anything but simple or straightforward.  But, then, how could it be given who they were?

“There’s no better time than now,” Bruce commented.  “There.  Yeah, see?  He’s head down.”  Natasha turned and looked at the monitor.  Sure enough, the boy was positioned as Bruce described.  “And she’s in a good position, too.  You sure you haven’t felt any contractions?”  Natasha spared him a harsh glance.  Bruce sighed and tipped his head ruefully.  “Okay, I get it.  Well, you’re thirty-six weeks.  They’re both a good size, more than six pounds each.  It could be any time now.”

She felt the room condense around her, and suddenly it was harder to breathe.  Her eyes went back to the monitor, to the images of her children.  She could feel them moving as she saw it.  It was incredible.  And they were beautiful.  Whenever she stopped and made herself see and feel and truly experience this, that was the only thought she could manage.  _They’re beautiful._   She stared at them, at her daughter.  She could already tell she was going to look like Steve.  She had the shape of his eyes, his full lips, his strong jawline.  And the boy…  She couldn’t tell.  In the moments she allowed herself to think and picture and dream, she wondered if the little girl looked like Steve, did that mean would the little boy would look like her?  And she wondered about other stupid things.  People always said things like “she has my mother’s nose” or “he’s the spitting image of my brother”.  Neither she nor Steve had any family, and she had no memories of her parents.  How would they be able to tell that?  Did it matter that these two tiny beings would have no legacy beyond the one they were building for them?  Did it matter that she had no idea what she was doing and she was fairly certain Steve didn’t either?  That she had no mother of her own to teach her, to tell her how to do this?  That she was terribly ill-equipped and fundamentally too dark and damaged to love something so pure and perfect and–

“You and Steve come up with any names yet?”  Bruce’s question yanked her from her thoughts.  Suddenly the image of the twins was gone as he took the probe away and set it aside.

“No,” she whispered.  Did her voice sound as tremulous and unsure as she thought it did?

“Probably want to get on that,” Bruce remarked, not missing her change in demeanor at all.  He wiped her belly clean of the gel.  “And you should probably think about whether you want to try delivering them the natural way or have a C-section.  Although, keep in mind that doing it naturally might not be an option if either of them moves out of position over the next couple weeks, which could happen.”  Natasha was unable to focus on any of this.  It was too much, too fast.  A few minutes ago, labor had been a distant thing.  Something she didn’t have to think about.  Now it was anything but.  _I’m not ready for this.  I’m not ready._ “–regular contractions five to seven minutes apart.  If your water breaks or you experience any bleeding.  And you should decide whether or not you want to try nursing them.  And I should probably see you every couple of days.  Everything’s looking really good, so I don’t anticipate any problems, but there have never been two infants like this, and we need to be prepared for every eventuality.  If you, uh…  Well, if you want, next time I can do an internal exam to see if anything’s–”

Natasha sat up with a grimace.  Bruce reached out a hand to touch her, steady her, comfort her maybe, but he didn’t touch her, like he was afraid of her now.  She sat there a moment, allowing her shirt to cover her stomach again, leaning forward as much as she could (which wasn’t much).  She breathed deeply, trying not to notice that her heart was pounding.  “Tell you what, Bruce,” she said after she’d gathered herself enough to speak.  She offered up a weak smile.  “You deal with your hang-ups, and I’ll deal with mine.”

Bruce smiled back.  “Sure,” he said with a little laugh that suggested he wasn’t about to actually follow through with that.

Natasha sniffed and looked down at her stomach.  Her hand, too, was tentative and uncertain as she laid it across the top of her belly.  She sighed, rueful and rattled.  “At least you don’t have a time limit.”  Bruce laughed lightly and finally wrapped his fingers around her shoulder, clasping her tightly and letting her lean just a little into his side.

* * *

Somewhere between SHIELD collapsing and the Avengers reuniting, Clint had lost his way.

It was crazy in a way, because he’d never felt more _at home_ than he did now.  This was where he belonged, where he needed to be, and he knew that.  Having SHIELD ripped out from under him had been disturbing and upsetting, of course.  He’d served the intelligence organization for so long that it had only been natural for it to become a major part of how he defined his existence.  With the Avengers, he could still fight, be the soldier and sniper he’d been trained to be, but without the moral ambiguities that SHIELD had often thrust upon him.  Here, there were far fewer gray areas, and the mission was always the same.  Stop evil.  Contain destruction.  Protect civilians.  Safeguard the innocent.  There was no need to walk that fine line between right and wrong, to justify the means via the ends, to turn a blind eye to lesser evils to prevent worse ones.  With Captain America leading them, Clint felt sure in a way he never had under Nick Fury that he was doing not only a good thing but the _right_ thing.

That was a direction he’d never known he’d needed until now.

However, in other ways, he felt completely ungrounded and so damn _weightless_.  Part of that was most certainly due to the fact that, despite having worked for SHIELD for so many years, he’d never been a team player.  He’d completed most of his missions on his own, and when he’d been partnered, it had typically been with one person: Natasha.  This wasn’t to say he’d never fought in a team situation; he’d assisted the STRIKE Team numerous times during his tenure as an agent (before he’d found out they were a bunch of goddamn lying rat bastards and traitors for HYDRA).  But he wasn’t necessarily used to functioning so openly as a member of something bigger than him.

And then there was the fact that the first real relationship he’d had in quite a while had recently and unceremoniously fallen apart.  He’d really tried to make it work with Sharon, but it hadn’t.  She was a good person, the best he’d known in a while, and an incredible agent.  She was beautiful, smart as a whip, and more capable than anyone gave her credit for.  Still, despite how similar their backgrounds were, it simply wasn’t in the cards.  He was an Avenger.  She was a CIA agent.  Her work took her all over the world, and her career was on the fast track to success.  His life was just as chaotic and unpredictable, and the labors of making a relationship function with so little time together wasn’t something either of them could get behind.  As much as he liked her, he didn’t love her enough to sacrifice what he did for the sake of being with her.  She felt the same.  Living the lives they lived required a sacrifice of normalcy.  And she’d tried to be there for him in the wake of the battle with Omega Red, but it just hadn’t been enough.  Or _right_.  Maybe that was selfish and made him a bit of a jerk (because she really had been supportive), but that was how he felt.  She was too much like him, in a sense.  Too tangled up in this life.  Too representative of the dark things he’d done so recently (having to fake being HYDRA and ending up condemning his best friend’s husband to torture being one of them).  He was trying to forget and move on, and she was a reminder, like it or not.  So they’d parted as friends a couple of weeks ago.  It had been amiable and regretful, and she’d called twice since then to check in on him.  When it came down to it, she was sweet and nice and everything he couldn’t be.  He wished that things were different, but they weren’t.

So there was that, too.

But, fundamentally, his sense of discomfort and detachment was probably directly rooted in the fact that he’d died.  For almost two hours, he’d been _dead_. 

He had no memory of it, of course.  All he recalled of the harrowing experience was having his life drained away from him in the defense of Natasha when HYDRA had come to take her.  Apparently Omega Red had sucked him dry of his biochemical energy, which had left him withering in a coma for a few days until his body had finally given out and cardiac arrest had claimed him.  A couple hours later, Steve had saved him.  Not just saved him.  _Brought him back from the dead._ Clint still wasn’t entirely sure he understood _how_ that had happened.  Something about a particular type of metal called carbonadium that had been developed by the Russians in the Red Room and had apparently been enchanted by Loki’s scepter that was somehow capable of bridging two spirits.  Steve could control this bridge, and, thanks to the serum, had the capacity to give away some of his own life force without permanently damaging (or killing) himself.  It was incredible and alarming and it had shaken Clint down to his core.  He owed Rogers, owed him for more than he could ever repay, and he was such a bastard that he didn’t even really know how to even express his gratitude.  Somehow a simple “thank you” didn’t cut it in a situation like this.

And the world had gone on after _his_ world had changed completely.  The Avengers were becoming a real thing.  Natasha, who had grown so much over the last year, had married Steve.  She was on the verge of becoming a mother, as impossible as that seemed.  Clint now lived with an eccentric group of superheroes, with Asgardian demigods and monsters and war heroes and billionaire geniuses.  And he’d lost his hearing.  In all honesty, that should have been a minor thing.  Bruce and Tony had designed hearing aids that were so tiny, unobtrusive, and efficient that sometimes even he forgot about his problem.  It didn’t correct his deafness completely; his right ear had been particularly damaged during his fight with Omega Red, and he noticed the deficit more plainly on that side.  Bruce had promised to work on some permanent implants that he claimed would jack directly into Clint’s nervous system.  It would be like he’d never lost his hearing at all, if he and Tony could get them to work right.  Still, the good doctor had recommended he learn ASL and research more coping strategies to deal with this handicap.  _Handicap_.  He hadn’t once opened the books Banner had recommended on the subject.

Needless to say, it was strange that he was where he was supposed to be but no longer who he had been.  He’d died, and Steve had brought him back, but it felt like part of him hadn’t made it.  And thinking about any of it was so damn annoying that he just wanted to throw himself into his work.  So he was there at the debriefing a whole thirty minutes before anyone else.  He spent that time staring uselessly at the sleek conference table at which he was sitting instead of going over the data Tony had pilfered from the HYDRA base they’d raided in Kosovo the night prior.  He was drifting but not really thinking anything useful.  This was how he’d been since Sharon had left to return to DC.  Hell, this was how he’d been since he’d risen from the grave.  He was sure there was some sort of psychiatric term for what he was feeling.  Depressed, but not.  Anxious, but not.  Dissociated maybe.  Probably a solid case of PTSD.  He’d suffered with that on and off before; this was apparently more of an “on” time than an “off” time.  That probably wasn’t the right way to think about it, but to hell with anything else.

“Hey, man.”  The soft call attracted Clint’s attention from analyzing the edge of the table like it was the world’s most interesting thing, and he looked up to see Sam Wilson coming into the conference room.  He was dressed in blue jeans and an olive green polo shirt.  A couple of bruises marred his face, but other than that he was well.  Clint and Sam hadn’t exactly hit it off at first, since Sam was (and likely always would be) a close friend of Steve’s first and foremost, and when they’d met Clint hadn’t exactly been on the right side of the battle.  They’d made their peace about what Clint had done to Steve without much trouble, though.  Sam was a stand-up guy, simple and stalwart.  He reminded Clint of Steve a lot, which was probably why the two soldiers were so close.  “How’re you doing?”

Clint made himself focus.  It was harder than it should have been, and not just because he was tired.  “Decent.  You?”

“Alright,” Sam responded with a half-hearted shrug.  He headed to the annex of the conference room where there was a small kitchenette fully stocked with snacks and drinks.  He rummaged for a moment and returned with a couple of bags of Doritos and two bottles of soda.  “This avenging stuff is a lot of work.”  He tossed Clint the chips and set the bottle down in front of him.  Clint grunted.  He unscrewed the top of the bottle and downed half of it in a few huge gulps.  He needed the jolt of caffeine and the sugar.  “You okay?” Sam asked, watching with a concerned frown.

Before Clint could answer, the louder voice of Thor resounded down the hallway.  Tony was with him, and the two of them strolled into the room in the midst of some sort of good-natured conversation.  Thor looked as ridiculous as he always seemed to look in Midgardian attire, simple khaki Dockers and a maroon shirt.  His mane of blond hair was gathered and bound into a pony tail at the base of his head.  Stark was dressed richly as always in a nice blazer and expensive slacks.  He smiled at seeing them, that Cheshire cat grin he always had before making an ass of himself.  “Lovebirds alone in their love nest,” he joked.  “Are we interrupting anything?”

“Go to hell, Stark,” Sam said around a mouthful of chips.

“Ah, my favorites,” Thor said appreciatively, sticking his hand into Sam’s bag uninvited.  Sam glared reproachfully but said nothing.  Nobody really went up against Thor, and Sam obviously had something of a hero complex for the guy.  “Though I fail to understand using fake powdered cheese on these corn chips when perfectly good authentic cheese lies in your cold box.  Even if they are delicious.”

“What’s delicious?”  Steve and Hill entered the room, the latter in a simple black dress and the former wearing jeans and a blue polo shirt that was about a size and half too small (Clint didn’t know if Rogers simply had no concept of what size he actually needed or if Natasha dressed him that way and he was just oblivious – he suspected the latter).  At the sight of the team chowing down on chips, he adopted what they were all quickly coming to call the “How Dare You Let Down Your Nation, Son” face.  “I thought we agreed not to eat during mission debriefs.”

“You agreed,” Tony said, popping a chip into his mouth.  “The rest of us are hungry.”

“Come on, Cap,” Sam said.  “You were in the army.  We ate during debriefs all the time.”

Steve scowled lightly.  “That was because we had to.  This is just being messy.”  Unsurprisingly, Captain America was something of a neat-freak and a tad obsessive-compulsive about it.  Still, he was right, given there was already a smudged fingerprint of Nacho cheese on the table.

Tony thrust the bag he’d pilfered from Clint out at Steve as he came over and set his pads and papers down.  “The problem is you’ve never had one.  So try.”

Getting under Steve’s skin about his lack of knowledge and experience in the future (despite having lived in it for almost three years now) was one of Tony’s favorite past-times.  Stark loved to tease, and he was so damn good at it.  One would think someone as smart and savvy as Steve was would realize that and not react.  But he always did, which encouraged Tony to do it more, which riled Steve even more…  It was a cycle, an amusing one for the most part.  And now Steve was frowning in another expression they’d taken to calling his “Mom and Dad Are About to Throw Down” face.  “I have tried them.  I don’t care for them much.”

Sam looked aghast.  “How can you not like Doritos?”

“Clearly,” Tony said with nothing but mock-seriousness in his tone, “it’s because it’s cannibalism.  Am I the only one who’s noticing that Cap has the _exact_ shoulder to waist ratio of a Dorito?  Here.”  He picked a perfectly proportioned triangular chip from the bag, stood to the side of Steve, and held it right next to him for comparison’s sake.  Clint sniggered.  Sam and Thor weren’t so reserved, laughing loudly.  Tony was right, as he usually was.  “Look at you.  It’s uncanny.  And I know Natasha likes the scenery, but seriously, buy some clothes that fit you right.  You’re making the rest of us look bad, including Thor.  Being too sexy for your shirt went out in like 1995.”

Steve flushed with annoyance and embarrassment, looking down at his chest.  “What’s the matter with my shirt?”

“Adorably clueless is not a convincing look on you anymore,” Tony reminded, “not with your wife about ready to burst at the seams.”

Maria had had about enough of this.  “Can we work here?  You know, if it’s not too much trouble.  Some of us have things we need to do that don’t involve acting like five year-olds.”

Steve tightened his jaw and snatched the perfect Dorito from Tony’s outstretched hand.  He popped it into his mouth and chewed loudly, staring Tony down and making everyone laugh again.  Tony smiled and wrapped an arm around Steve’s neck, tugging him closer, mussing his hair in a sloppy hug.  Steve playfully pushed him away, and with that the Avengers settled down around the table.  “Alright, JARVIS.  Can you bring it up, please?”

“Certainly, Captain.”  A moment later the huge flood of data they’d acquired from the HYDRA installation they’d shut down in Kosovo appeared over the center of the conference table.  It was almost unmanageable there was so much.  Clint squinted, forcing himself to focus and look over the impressive array of files.  Of all the HYDRA labs, safe houses, and strongholds they’d eradicated over the last few months, this was the first one out of which they’d been able to get data before it was erased.  Apparently HYDRA operatives had a policy of wiping servers and hard drives.  This time, Hawkeye and Captain America had slipped inside the base prior to the assault.  Both of them were more than proficient with black ops thanks to their time with SHIELD, so they’d managed to do it undetected and downloaded everything they could from one of the main server rooms in the office building under Tony’s direction.  After securing the prize, they’d fought their way out while Falcon, Iron Man, and Thor had fought their way in to meet somewhere in the middle.  There hadn’t been much left.

Steve sighed, looking over the massive heap of information with a slightly lost expression on his face.  “Tony, did you–”

Before Stark could answer, there was a flustered huff from the entrance to the conference room.  “Sorry,” Bruce breathlessly said as he came in and took a seat as unobtrusively as possible next to Tony.  “Got side-tracked.  Didn’t see the message on my phone.”  That seemed to be Banner’s MO of late, dealing with his own projects and issues first and Avengers business second.  Clint didn’t know what exactly was going on with him, save for the fact that he too hadn’t escaped the insanity serum business unfazed.

Steve nodded and turned back to Stark.  “What have you got?”

Tony stood and tapped a few controls on the glass surface of the table.  “Not much, unfortunately.  I’ve had JARVIS pulling this apart, running it through the standard search algorithms.  And this is what we have to show for it.”  He was whipping through documents, blueprints, records, and pictures too fast to really digest.  “All sorts of information about Project: Insight that’s not terribly helpful.  Loads of data on the assholes we just killed.  Want to know how HYDRA’s been funding itself for the last twenty years or so?  Terabytes of financials.  But not surprisingly very little on the scepter, what they’re doing with it, or who’s in charge of HYDRA now.”

“Maybe there’s no one,” Bruce offered.  He was looking over the data and the reports from the raid for the first time.  “Sometimes the simplest explanation is the correct one.  Maybe all these little pockets are acting on their own.”

“Maybe,” Hill conceded, “but I doubt it.  Obviously HYDRA’s had its fair share of would-be leaders recently.  Pierce.  Malik.  It doesn’t seem likely that no one’s taken the reins, especially given the wealth of things they stole from the Fridge and SHIELD STATION that we haven’t located yet.  If someone’s got a hold of all of that…”

“None of the guys we took out seemed to be more than henchmen,” Steve said, “not the sort to be masterminding anything or to know what to do with something like the scepter even if they had it.  They were sloppy, uncoordinated.”

“Agreed,” Clint offered.

“Does anybody else think it’s weird that this is, what, the eleventh or twelfth HYDRA base we’ve exterminated over the last couple of months and there still seem to be so many of these so-called henchmen?”  Sam shook his head, folding his arms across his chest.  “Somebody out there is recruiting.  Training.”

“Potentially,” said Maria.  “Or these were all just sleeper agents and mercs.  I’m still getting reports of SHIELD operatives across the globe who were turncoats, even six months after the battle at the Triskelion.  HYDRA’s so deeply embedded in everything that it’s hard to tell what’s new and what’s not.”

“Perfect,” Sam grumbled in disdain.

“It does not matter how deep into your world HYDRA has gotten,” Thor said, glancing around the table at his teammates.  “The scepter is beyond dangerous.  The ill omen Heimdall sensed could not have been false.  Whatever evil they intended with it, we have not seen it yet.”

“What, the giant vampire monster with the tentacle things wasn’t bad enough?” Tony quipped, but the joke fell flat because they’d all been thinking the same thing.  There was power in Loki’s scepter, power that SHIELD had been studying and trying to harness.  SHIELD and HYDRA, potentially at the same time, it seemed.  The carbonadium had been one thing, in and of itself not necessarily evil.  In fact, it had saved Clint’s life.  But that couldn’t be the whole story.  However the scepter worked, whatever it was, it had the capacity to wreak havoc and cause destruction.  Control minds.  Destroy people.  Clint could attest to just how serious this situation was.

Steve looked at Thor without a speck of doubt in his eyes.  “We’ll get it back.  We won’t rest until we do.”  Given that the scepter had come to earth through Loki’s machinations, Thor wasn’t easily appeased.  Getting it back and returning it to Asgard was the only option.  Still, he seemed genuinely comforted by Steve’s promise.  “So where does this leave us, Tony?”

Tony heaved a sigh, tipping his head.  “Nowhere useful.  It’s a needle in a haystack right now.  It’ll take some time to run a more thorough analysis.”

Thor didn’t look pleased.  “How much time?”

“Dunno.  Days.  Weeks, potentially.  Assuming there’s something to find.”

Thor opened his mouth, probably to complain about that and stress again how quickly they needed to act, but he never got the chance.  “Well.”  The group turned to the door and spotted Natasha there.  Clint hadn’t seen too many pregnant women in his life, let alone women _this_ pregnant, but it was beyond any argument that Natasha was beautiful like this.  Radiant.  _Glowing._   As trite as that was, it was undeniably true.  She seemed more alive, more vibrant, than he could ever recall, and he’d known her for almost seven years now.  She’d grown her hair longer over the last few months, and it was thick and lush and pulled back into a clip.  Even dressed as she was in a loose-fitting emerald green blouse that did nothing to hide how big her stomach was and jeans that must have been made special to accommodate her shape, she was breath-taking.

And she was furious.  That was pretty obvious.  “Nice of you to invite me to the team meeting,” she said, smiling a smile that _dripped_ in sarcasm.  And warning.  “Since I’m still a member of this team last I checked.”

Rogers absolutely blanched.  He stood up like he was going to go to her.  And then he sat back down as she came over.  Granted, he had a hundred pounds of muscle and more than six inches of height on her, but she was positively _towering_ over him.  “Nat.  I, well…  I mean, you, uh…  I thought you’d be tired since…”  He gulped.  Clint couldn’t help his amused grin.  He saw Tony duck his face to hide his silent laughter.  Steve winced.  “Sorry?”

She said nothing to that _._   Clint knew Natasha better than anyone, better than Steve even in some ways.  And she was still so powerful, so proficient at bringing a man to his knees.  He was watching her do it without her even lifting a finger.  “Mind if I sit, Captain?  I thought I should probably ask since I trudged all the way up here unwelcomed.”

 _Captain._   Lord, Rogers was in trouble.  Now he did stand, all too eager to vacate his chair between Tony and Maria so that she could have it.  Wordlessly Natasha settled herself into it.  Every pair of eyes in the room was on her as she found a comfortable position, leaning back slightly and linking her hands together over the swell of her belly.  Her wedding and engagement rings caught the light of the displays, glowing colorfully.  Steve went to go sit next to Sam, who was struggling mightily not to grin, intently staring at the hem of his shirt in his lap.  Natasha let the quiet fester a bit longer, sweeping her eyes around the table as though to size them up, challenging them all to test her.  There wasn’t a man among them willing to.  She finally settled on Tony.  “You were saying, Stark?”

Tony cleared his throat.  “Uh, yeah.  So, anyway, I got nothing useful.  I’ll keep working on it.”

That useless statement hung there until Natasha leaned forward a bit with a noisy creak of her chair.  “Would you like to see what I have to bring to the table?” she asked slowly.  She was staring at Tony.  Clint couldn’t be sure, but he thought Steve was trying to shrink down in his chair.  This had become something of a common occurrence of late.  He hadn’t seen Natasha so much the last couple of weeks, what with the situation with Sharon.  He’d wanted to be alone, frankly, so he’d spent a great deal of time on the roof of the Tower, down in the gym, or working by himself with JARVIS on the designs for the new Avengers quinjet Tony was building.  Still, rumors ran rampant even in this small group, and supposedly Natasha had become somewhat… _temperamental_ of late.

Tony was slack-jawed.  “Uh…  Sure?”

“You did ask me to look at the data.  Gee, I didn’t even get invited to attend this little brainstorming session, and I’m the only one who did the homework?”  Natasha cocked her head.  Her voice was equal parts teasing and scathing.  Clint struggled to keep it under check; she was something, beyond any doubt.  He’d missed her owning a room like this.  “JARVIS, can you bring up the files we talked about before?”

“Of course, Ms. Romanoff.”  Immediately the holographic display was filled with a very particular slew of images.  Most of them were pictures of a middle-aged man with a stern face and gray hair that was streaked with white.

Tony stood and leaned over the conference table.  “We know this guy.  Doctor Alfred List.  PhDs in biology and physics.  Former SHIELD scientist.”

“He was in charge of the scepter at SHIELD STATION.  The last guy who had it,” Clint added.  “It would make sense if he was HYDRA.”

“Oh, he is,” Natasha said.  “We had suspicions before, but I think it’s pretty irrefutable now.  Apparently this place you guys shut down in Kosovo was the home of something called Project: Redemption.”

“Right,” Tony said.  “It’s all over the files.  But we don’t know what that is or if it’s even something important.”

“I don’t, either.  Could be nothing.  But this guy’s not.  These files suggest he’s in charge of the project, whatever it is.  And whoever he is…”  She focused on a particular picture.  It looked like nothing spectacular, a group of scientists and doctors at some sort of conference.  A sign to the side of the hotel ballroom claimed it was the 12th annual meeting of the Bioengineering Ethics Consortium of all things.  She enlarged it until the picture became clearer.

Clint’s heart sunk.  “Son of a bitch,” he grumbled.

“Yeah,” Natasha said, sharing a look with him.  There could be no doubt that in the background behind a bunch of other attendees Doctor List was there shaking hands with Doctor Fine, the same doctor who’d saved Fury’s life when the Winter Soldier had nearly assassinated him.  The same one who’d brought Steve back from the brink when the STRIKE Team had nearly tortured him to death.  And the same doctor who’d betrayed Natasha to HYDRA so that they could capture her and take the twins.  “Might be a coincidence, but I’m starting to doubt they even exist anymore.”

“Wow,” Tony said in surprise.

“This List guy is not a nobody.  The new Doctor Zola, maybe.”  Steve stiffened, clenching his jaw.  Clint well knew why, what Zola had done.  “I know he’s been on our radar, but he’s a serious player.”

“We’ve already been tracking him,” Maria said.  “I can put him higher on our list of persons of interest, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Natasha shook her head.  “Not just that.  If you refine your searching algorithm with the idea that List is key, it doesn’t do much to narrow it down.  He was obviously in charge there at Kosovo.”

“That would probably explain why the soldiers there were so inept,” Sam added.  “Scientists aren’t known for knowing how to fight.”  His eyes darted to Bruce, and his expression turned into a slight grimace.  “No offense, doc.”

Bruce raised his hands in surrender.  “None taken.  So what else is there, then?”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed.  “Not much.  But there is this.”  She brought another picture up.  It was poor-quality, blurry.  “This came from one of the security feeds at the building you guys destroyed.  The HYDRA agents probably didn’t have a chance to scrub it before you guys attacked.  That’s List,” she said, pointing at the left side.  It was difficult to tell that, but she was right.  “And that, I think, is our man.  The new head of HYDRA.”

Tony squinted, analyzing the distorted picture.  “JARVIS, can you clean this up at all?”

“Already done, sir.”

The picture grew a bit clearer.  The other figure was a man with extremely short brown hair and an angular face.  He had beady eyes, one of which adorned by a monocle ( _who the hell wears a monocle?_ ), and he was dressed in some sort of uniform.  “Military?” Clint asked.

“None that I know of,” Natasha answered.  “And I ran his face through our database.  No matches.”

Thor looked displeased.  “So we are back to where we started.”

Natasha smiled knowingly.  “Not quite.  HYDRA came from the past, so I started thinking maybe we should look in the past.  Quite a few prominent German families were involved in both the Third Reich and HYDRA back during World War II.  I dug through SHIELD’s old files, ran a comparative face analysis and…”  She brought up a different black and white picture of a fierce, bald man.  Natasha’s eyes flicked to her husband, and her face softened.  “Take a good look, Steve.  You should recognize him.”

Steve did recognize him.  He sat forward in his chair, his eyes clouded with disbelief and then disgust.  He shook his head, his shoulders tensing.  “Baron von Strucker.”

Tony shot worried eyes to him.  “Baron von who?”

“Josef von Strucker,” Steve supplied.  “He was a lieutenant of the Red Skull.”  SHIELD’s data on this man, as well as what was publically available in various history texts, appeared beside the profile.  Steve was the best source of information they had.  “Head of his security.  He had this advanced weaponry grafted onto his arm called Satan’s Claw.  Nasty stuff.  I ran into him in 1944 in Bavaria.  He was trying to protect Zola while he worked on Project: Master Man.”  At the team’s befuddled expression, Steve explained.  “That was Zola’s first attempt that we knew of to recreate Doctor Erskine’s work on Project: Rebirth.”  He seemed troubled, like he was remembering something that wasn’t entirely pleasant.  “So this guy is his grandson?”

“It would appear so, Captain,” JARVIS answered.  “Very little is known of what became of Strucker’s family after the fall of HYDRA and Nazi Germany in 1945.  However, during the war they were prominent, powerful, and wealthy.  It stands to reason that they could have continued to be instrumental in maintaining HYDRA’s influence over the years.”

“Great,” Sam muttered.  “Another blast from the past.”

Steve shook his head, anger sharpening his eyes.  “Son of a…”  He focused his gaze on Sam.  “When we were in Prague a few months back, Malik mentioned Strucker.  Something about him staying in line.  Damn it.  I didn’t even make the connection.”

“Nobody’s perfect,” Tony said, “not even you.”  Steve scowled at him, not appreciative.  “You had a lot going on a few months ago.  It’s alright.”  The inventor peered closer at the hazy image of the new Baron von Strucker.  “Alright, yay.  Last night’s mission wasn’t a complete waste of time.  And good sleuthing, Red.  You did in a few hours what would have taken me and computers days to do.  Hurrah.  I knew there was a reason we invited you to this meeting.”  Natasha’s lips turned upward in a little, smug, satisfied smile.  She was clearly doing her damnedest not to seem touched by that.  Maria set a hand to her shoulder.  “JARVIS, move this asshat to the top of the search pile.  I want everything you can find on him, all the way back to World War II.  Before then, even.  If he’s HYDRA’s number one thug, we need to shut him down.”

“Right away, sir.”

“And he has the scepter?” Thor said.  It was a question, but the way he said it made it sound more like a request for confirmation.

Tony deflated slightly.  “Don’t know.”  Thor’s face darkened with defeat.  “Hey, it’s something.  Like Cap said, we’ll get it back.”

Thor’s face fell.  He sighed.  “Perhaps Heimdall can be of some assistance.  I may return to Asgard in the coming days to inquire after this baron of yours.”

Hill stood, energy in her eyes at the prospect of new leads to chase down.  “And I’ll work some connections in Interpol and see what I can find on him.  Obviously they pulled whatever they were doing out of Kosovo.  Let’s see if we can figure out where they’re moving it to.”

“Anything else we need to talk about?” Steve asked, glancing around the group.

“Nothing that needs to be discussed here,” Natasha said evenly, snatching her husband’s gaze and holding it with a threat unspoken in her voice.  _Shots fired._   “I’d like to speak with you in private, Captain, after you’re done.”  Steve swallowed again, nodding.  “Now I’m going to lie down.”  She pushed herself up less than gracefully.  Steve lurched to his feet, as did Sam and Thor.  Tony turned to help her, but her harsh glance stopped him before he even had a chance to touch her.  “Boys.  Maria.”  She caught Clint’s eyes and gave a little twitch of a proud, knowing smile.  Then she put her hands to her back, which bowed a little with the weight, and walked out of the room.

Steve winced.  “God Almighty…” he whispered.

Maria smiled sweetly at him.  “Whatever makes her happy, Captain, I suggest you do it in a hurry.  Excuse me, gentlemen.”

With that, the group started to disperse.  Clint didn’t move, though, at least not at first.  Ever since that picture of Josef von Strucker had appeared on the holographic display, he hadn’t been able to think.  There was something familiar about his face, even though Clint was damn certain he’d never seen him (or his nefarious grandson) before.  Still, his eyes, dark and beady and taut with a menacing scowl…  He felt like he’d seen them before.  He didn’t know where or when or how or in what context, but it was persistent, this sense of familiarity that was tingling in his nerves.  He lost himself in that moment, wondering and worrying (as weird as that was), and it was only a firm hand on his shoulder that pulled him back to the present.  Steve’s firm hand.  “You okay, Clint?”

Clint shook his head as if to clear it.  It took him a beat to realize that everyone was leaving.  It took him another to figure out what to say.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You look kinda like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“No, it’s nothing.  I’m fine.”

Steve’s grinned weakly.  Despite him being married to Natasha, Clint wasn’t terribly close with the other man.  Granted over the last few months working together (and given all the hell they’d gone through before that), they were better friends than they had been before.  But what Steve had done for him made him uncomfortable, no doubt about it.  And they both knew it.  “Are you doing alright?  I mean, with Sharon leaving and all…  Not that it’s my business.”

It was heartfelt, if not a tad awkward.  And it wasn’t his business, but Clint found he couldn’t bring himself to mind.  “I’m fine,” he said again.

Rogers clearly wanted to say more, but he needed a moment to gather himself enough to say it.  “I know Nat’s been…  Well, you know how she’s been.  But I think she’s missing you, even if she won’t bring herself to say it.  So if you want to come by, it’s fine.  Anytime.”

“Thanks, Cap.”

“Like now.”  Steve smiled more fully.  “She won’t kill me with a witness there.”

Clint actually laughed.  It was the first time in what felt like a long time, and it felt good.  “You sure about that?”

“No,” the other man replied around a chuckle.  “But I have hope.”

“Hey, feathers,” Tony called from the other side of the conference room where he was flanked by the other Avengers.  “I got some tech I need you to try out.  New concussive arrows.  Should be pretty bad ass.”  Clint didn’t know if Tony was trying to save him or if he just had phenomenal timing.  It was definitely the former.  “Let Mr. Romanoff sleep in the bed he just made.”

Clint smiled a bit deviously and shrugged, feeling more alive now than he had in days (and that included the mission last night).  He smacked Steve on the shoulder.  “Sorry, Cap.  When I told you to take care of her, this is what I meant.”

Steve grimaced.  “Yeah, I guess I promised.”

“Yes, you did.  You reap what you sow?”

“Funny.”

Clint turned to head towards the others.  As he did, he caught sight of Strucker’s face again, and that niggling sensation of _recognition_ came back.  But he dismissed it and walked away.  He was tired, after all, and if there was anything worth knowing about this jerk, JARVIS would surely find it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Terpeniye._ – Patience.


	2. Chapter 2

These days Steve felt like he was constantly wandering through a minefield.  One wrong step could lead to utter disaster.  His life had become a precarious balancing act to trying to lead a new team in its infancy with trying to be what Natasha needed, and frankly he was feeling overwhelmed.  It was pretty remarkable, how radically his life had changed over the last six months.  He’d gone from struggling to make sense of this new future _alone_ to becoming the Avengers’ captain, marrying the world’s deadliest assassin, and facing imminent fatherhood.  He didn’t regret any of that in the slightest, even if the road to get to this point had been dark and dangerous.  In so many ways, he felt a level of happiness and _belonging_ like he never had before, not even at Peggy’s side during the war.  He knew he was where he was meant to be.  Who he was meant to be with.  Who _he_ was meant to be.  There was completion to that, as well as excitement and contentment and so many other good things he was only beginning to understand and appreciate.  The realization that he was _home_ was beyond anything he’d ever dreamed.

Lately, though, that realization was coming with a price.  He was certainly willing to pay it, but he was wearing emotionally.  Watching Natasha blossom from the woman she had been a mere six months ago to the woman she was today was one of the most extraordinary experiences of his life.  He’d never imagined he could be this in love with someone.  She was beautiful, so strong to weather all of the trouble through which they’d suffered and come out intact and vibrant.  She’d never seen the good in herself that he had, and he would spend the rest of his life, _every day_ if he needed to, reminding her of just how powerful she was.  With enviable courage and aplomb, she was facing a transformation of her mind, heart, and body, of her _life_ , that he knew terrified her.  Given the existence she’d had before SHIELD, it was only natural that the concept of marriage, motherhood, and family unnerved her, and he didn’t begrudge her her doubts or reservations at all.  He’d known this was going to be tough before he’d proposed, and he was prepared to face every hurdle and obstacle with her.  She deserved no less; maybe this situation hadn’t ever been something they’d envisioned or intended, but it had happened, and it was his fault that it had.  He’d put her into this situation, and the situation was happening _to her_ , forcing _her_ to go through a massive change that she’d never wanted.  He owed her much more than he could ever repay for bringing his children into this world.

But he was tired.  And walking on eggshells all the time.  This wasn’t to say her entire pregnancy had been emotional and traumatic; that was far from the case.  Steve had never known an expectant mother before, at least not with any familiarity.  Natasha seemed vibrantly healthy.  He didn’t know if that was due to the serum or simply her own resilience, but whatever it was, it was astounding.  Once the morning sickness had abated, she’d been positively brimming with life and energy.  Her mood had been light, sly, and unabashedly comfortable.  She’d wanted to continue fighting, and when that hadn’t been an option, she’d done anything else she could to be useful and help the team, which meant researching leads, designing and planning new equipment, and digesting intelligence reports with Hill.  The pregnancy had been a minor thing, a slight inconvenience that she easily ignored.  Steve hadn’t been at all interested in disabusing her of that notion.  He was keying his responses from her.  It wasn’t his responsibility to push her or demand anything of her.  If she wanted to act like nothing was happening, he would follow along with that.

The moments where she had acknowledged it, though, where her enthusiasm and excitement and love had escaped her…  Those were moments he’d cherish forever.  The first time she’d woken him in the middle of the night with a rushed, exhilarated breath of his name, pulling his hand over her belly so that he could feel what she was feeling.  _“You feel that?”_ she’d asked.  He was sleepy and dazed so he hadn’t realized what it had been at first.  Little flutters.  Something bumping against his palm.  She’d smiled at his wide eyes and dawning understanding.  _“It’s them.”_ The twins moving.  He could hardly believe his own love swelling in his heart, the pride and excitement, and all he’d been able to do was blink the tears from his eyes and kiss her breathless as she’d laughed into his mouth and held him tight.

Or the times when she thought no one was watching, when her eyes glazed with something soft and unexplainable and her lips curled into a little, secret smile and she swept her hand over their unborn children tenderly.  She’d whisper things in Russian she thought he couldn’t hear.  He’d never interrupted, never let it be known that he’d caught on to how much she was in love with them, too.  He’d just watched and promised himself again and again that he was never going to let anything hurt her or their babies.

Secretly, he’d breathed a sigh of relief and told himself that this wasn’t so bad.

That had been _then_ , when the concept of labor and childbirth and actual parenthood had been a distant, nonthreatening thing.  These last few weeks as the third trimester had settled down upon them, when the toll of carrying two amply sized babies was definitely beginning to be felt both physically and mentally, Natasha had morphed from calm, cool, and secretly excited to moody, exhausted, and silently terrified.  Her fire had been one of the things that had attracted Steve to her in the first place, but now it was burning on overdrive, fueled by hormones and anxiety.  _Everyone_ had noticed.  She snapped at people.  She was colder than normal, harsher than normal, never intentionally (at least, not usually intentionally) but sharp enough to cut.  She could switch from that to fragile and vulnerable in a breath and then to breezy and coy a blink later and then back to confrontational right after that.  It was almost dizzying.  And Steve knew it wasn’t her fault.  He was doing everything in his power to make this easy for her, but he couldn’t take it away.  At this point he figured he just needed to weather this with her, get her through it, and hopefully reach the other side intact.

Hopefully.

“Nat?” he called as he stepped into their suite.  The living room was immaculate and empty, even the couch where she’d been napping more often than not.  The fleece throw was folded and untouched on its arm.  Steve sighed.  He’d selfishly been hoping he’d come back from the meeting and find her asleep so he wouldn’t have to deal with the fall-out.  “Natasha?”  He ventured deeper inside.  The suite was huge, with far more space and extravagance than he’d ever seen, needed, or dreamed he’d have.  It still made him a bit uncomfortable to be surrounded with so much wealth, but he was trying to accept that and move on.  There was a lot of that happening lately.  Accepting and moving on.  He walked past the dining area and kitchen, past the spare bathroom and den, towards their bedroom in the back.  She wasn’t there either.  Steve felt his heart pump a little faster with a sudden burst of fear.  “Nat?  Are you here?”

There was no answer.  Steve knew enough about pregnancy to be getting seriously concerned.  She was close to the end, and if she’d gone into labor by herself…  “Natasha?  Where are you?”  He turned from their bedroom and headed back down the hall, about to ask JARVIS to find her, when he caught sight of her in the spare bedroom adjacent to theirs through its slightly opened door.  The bedroom was cleared out, completely empty save for one rocking chair, and she was in it.  Relief rushed over him, sweet and siphoning his strength for a moment.  Then he remembered he was in trouble.  Probably big trouble.  He swallowed down his pounding heart and summoned up some resolve, praying he survived this one.  “Nat?” he called again, knocking on the door because he didn’t want to startle her (not that he had ever successfully startled her in their two years of knowing each other).  He stepped inside slowly, like a keeper might approach a temperamental animal that could bite.  He didn’t like thinking about her like that, but it was kind of true.  He’d had his head bitten off more times than he cared to count lately.  “Natasha…”

“What.”

That was something, at least.  Not the total cold shoulder.  He stopped about halfway across, trying to figure out what he could say.  There wasn’t anything good, so he just went for it.  It was time to beg for forgiveness.  He was getting pretty good at that, if he did think so himself.  “I’m sorry.  Really, I am.  I just didn’t…  Well, I really did think you were tired because we were all up late last night, and I kinda assumed you were sleeping because I didn’t see you all afternoon.”  That was true, at least, but he’d been so busy with Maria and Tony that he hadn’t thought to actually check.  “Look, I’m not trying at all to imply that you’re not as much a part of the team as the rest of us.  You know I don’t think that.  No one thinks that.  I just forgot to send you a message about the meeting.  I’m very sorry.  Really.  So please don’t be mad.  Please, love?”

“I went to see Banner today.”

That fairly effectively cut off his litany of excuses and apologies.  His heart leapt with worry and excitement all at once.  He chanced coming closer.  “Okay.”  He swallowed through a suddenly dry throat.  If it was something serious, Bruce would have mentioned something to him, so…  “What did he say?”

“Everything’s fine.”  She was so still, not even rocking in the chair.  But whatever this was, he could see she was rattled.  Extremely rattled.

Steve walked the rest of the way to her.  He didn’t know what to do, what to say.  He didn’t know if she wanted his comfort or for him to make light of whatever was bothering her or for him to help her through it or for him to just walk away and let her sort it out.  This was the minefield, and he was in the middle of it.  “That’s… that’s good.”

“He said it could be any day now.”

Some logical part of Steve had known that.  Of course it could be any day now.  She was thirty-six weeks pregnant.  The twins were due in April, and it was March.  The calendar couldn’t lie.  But hearing her say it made it real.  “Okay,” he managed dumbly.

She wasn’t pleased with his response.  She gripped the arms of the chair tighter until her knuckles were white.  “I’ve been having contractions.”

Forget about just real.  _That_ made this all seem like it was _happening right now_.  Steve felt the room spin a little, and suddenly tip-toeing around wasn’t a viable option.  “What?  Right now?”

She shook her head, moving her hands almost protectively to her stomach.  “Off and on the last few days.”

“Did you tell him?”

“No.”

Steve was normally endlessly patient.  Lord knew the last few months had been teaching him more and more about keeping his cool, about waiting and staying calm.  This was too much.  “Why didn’t you tell him?  I mean, if you’re having contractions, doesn’t that mean–”

“It’s normal.  I looked it up.”  She looked it up.  As far as Steve knew, she hadn’t looked _anything_ up about being pregnant this entire time.  “And they’re not regular.  So it’s okay.  We have time.”

“We have…”  This was ridiculous.  He gave up maintaining some distance and went to kneel in front of her.  Now he got a good look at her face.  It was fuller with a bit of weight gain, her skin clear and so soft.  God, she was gorgeous like this, and she didn’t even see it.  Her eyes were a storm, and he couldn’t begin to make sense of it.  This was what she was to him now.  A stranger and the most familiar person in the world to him, somehow at the same time.  And he couldn’t let this go on.  “No.  We need to get ready.”

Of all the disagreements they’d had off and on over the last few months, _this_ was the most common and the most pressing.  The twins were coming, inevitable and sure as the sun, and they had done _nothing_ to prepare for them.  This room that they were in was supposed to be the nursery, and it was empty.  No cribs.  No furniture.  No clothes or diapers or anything else they needed.  More than once Pepper had sweetly and kindly offered to go shopping with Natasha to help her pick out things they needed.  She’d even offered to pay, though that hadn’t been at all necessary.  But Natasha had refused, not rudely but persistently, postponing and postponing in that way that indicated she was never going to do it.  Steve had tried once or twice to nudge her into accepting Pepper’s invitation, that it could even be fun for the two of them to shop (imagine Black Widow shopping for baby things with Tony Stark’s girlfriend – it would seem impossible if not for the fact that it was one “yes” away from happening).  Natasha had never gone.

And there were other things.  Loads of them.  They had no plans.  No ideas for how they would handle this, what they would do.  Who was going to take care of them?  When?  _How?_   They needed the security of having some sort of system to deal with the change that was coming.  Steve was about to become a father, and he had no idea what he was doing.  He had no experience with babies beyond kissing them when they’d been shoved at him by excited mothers during the war bonds tour seventy years ago.  He was an only child.  Bucky had had three younger sisters, but Steve had been too little to remember what they’d been like as infants and toddlers.  He had grown up without a father, so there was nothing after which to model himself.  He didn’t know what to do.

But he knew that this limbo in which they’d been living, with the actual results of this pregnancy so far away…  That was ending, like it or not.  He’d abided by Natasha’s unspoken wish to ignore it.  He’d let her try to figure it out on her own.  He couldn’t anymore.  He smiled faintly, trying to seem far more in control than he actually felt, and took her hands atop her stomach.  He could feel one of the babies kick her.  “It’s time.  We _need_ to get ready.”

She was up, out of the chair, and fleeing the room before he could stop her.  Steve sighed shortly, wishing this was easier, that he could _make_ this easier for her, before racing after her into their bedroom.  “Nat, come on, love.  It’s alright–”

“It’s not alright!” she shouted, whirling on him so fast and furiously that he almost backpedaled.

He couldn’t be dissuaded this time.  The clock was literally ticking.  It had been from the moment she’d told him she was pregnant, but now he could feel every thud of the second hand like it was the beat of his heart inside him.  “It _is_ alright.”  She said nothing to that.  Steve let his hands slap helplessly against his thighs.  “Don’t you think we should buy things for them?”

“Like what?” she snapped.

He couldn’t quite believe this.  He could see that storm of emotions and hormones building up into a supercell of sorts, threatening lightning and thunder and a downpour of tears.  “Like cribs and diapers and bottles.  I don’t know.  We need to get ready.”

“They’re not due until April,” Natasha insisted.  Rationality was apparently headed out the door.  It had been for a while.  She shook her head, sniffling, nervously working her rings around her finger.  He’d noticed that she was doing that more and more whenever she was anxious.  He never thought he’d see the day when Black Widow fidgeted.  “It’s still March.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.  I don’t think they know or care.  If Bruce says it could be any day, it could be any day.  And if you’re having contractions–”

“They’re not regular,” she insisted again, like that meant something.

The only thing that meant to him was this was happening sooner rather than later.  “Have you given any thought to what I said a couple of weeks ago?” he asked.  This was treading into really dangerous territory, like he _knew_ the mines were aplenty around this topic, but he had to.  The twins were coming.  He’d given her enough time.

She played dumb.  She was so frazzled he could see it easily.  “What was that?”

He struggled to hold onto his temper.  “That we should buy a house.”

Her eyes shot to him, watery, and for a moment he regretted saying anything.  He almost had back then, too.  He’d only mentioned it because truly he thought it was for the best.  He didn’t mind living at the Tower; their every need was met and exceeded, their every want fulfilled.  It was huge and well-protected and…  _Not theirs._   He lowered his voice.  “I want to build a home for them.  For you.  For us.”  This was the same thing he’d told her before.  What he’d wanted before the war.  He’d thought his chances for a family, for a wife and children and all of the love and security that came with that, had been lost when he’d gone into the ice.  It hadn’t been, and now it only seemed right that they find a proper home.  “Pepper said we could do it in secret.  She knows lawyers who could protect our identities.  No one would know.  It would be safe.  I… I want to find a place of our own.”

“Where?” she asked.  “Brooklyn?”

Her disdain for the idea wasn’t well masked.  It hadn’t been the first time, either.  “It doesn’t matter.  Somewhere.  Somewhere where we can be a family.”  That was just as much a part of it as wanting something of their own.  Some privacy.  Some distance.  He appreciated their friends, their team, but this world was dangerous and chaotic and, for lack of a better word, _insane._   Natasha wasn’t the only one with worries.  He had plenty of his own, and not the least of which was raising children given the lives they led.  “Somewhere where we don’t have to be Captain America and Black Widow.”

“Oh, I think you’re deluding yourself if you think there’s _anywhere_ we can live where we’re not that,” she said harshly.

That hurt, both because it was true and because she was using it against him.  Deep down he was terrified of the idea of balancing being Captain America and being a father.  It would change everything.  Could he make the tough choices he had to make in battle with the knowledge that his family needed him back home?  He didn’t know.  Before nothing had been more important than doing the right thing, protecting people who needed protection, fighting for those who couldn’t fight for themselves.  He’d been told over and over again that the world needed him as Captain America, soldier and hero.  But his children would need him as their father.  Natasha needed him as her husband.  He didn’t know how to reconcile that.  Being Captain America was so much of who he was.  The world more than ever before needed the Avengers.  Without SHIELD, there was no defense against menaces like HYDRA or the Chitauri.  And the Avengers needed him.  They could likely function without him, but what sort of man would he be if he quit and let his friends and allies fight and risk their lives while he stayed behind?  It was that exact thought process that had driven him to try to enlist in the army five times, undeterred by every rejection.  He couldn’t simply be one or the other.  Captain America or Steve Rogers.  He was both.

And he wanted to find a way to make that work.  He couldn’t do that without her.  And maybe he was overthinking and blowing things out of proportion, but Natasha wasn’t the only one feeling overwhelmed.  He swallowed through a dry throat, trying not to seem hurt at how she was brushing his thoughts aside.  “Fine.  Then we’ll stay here.  We can live wherever you want to.”  He was willing to let it go to make her happy.  He was willing to do anything to make her happy.  “But we still need to get things prepared.  You need to tell me what you want.”

“What I want?”

“Nat, please–”

“What _I_ want?  I wanted to be included in the team meeting!” she snapped.

He shook his head, trying to make sense of the sudden shift in topic.  “You won’t even discuss names with me.”  She flinched, and he regretted any sign of her distress.  Still, he pressed on.  “We’re running out of time.  We _need_ to talk about it.”

“You want to talk?” she said, whirling to face him.  “Fine.  Let’s talk.  Let’s talk about how much my back hurts or how I can’t do anything without having to eat or how tired I am all the time or how I can’t sleep without worrying about you if you’re not there.  Let’s talk about how much I don’t like sitting here and not being able to do a damn thing to help!”

“You did help,” he assured.  He didn’t want to think about her worrying about him, so he ignored it and went on.  “Today.  Tony wasn’t wrong.  You saw the answers in all of that data faster than he did, faster than JARVIS did even.  Faster than anyone.  You don’t need to be out on the battlefield to be important.”

“Doesn’t feel that way,” she argued.  “You get to go out there and do what you’ve been doing.  You’re still Captain America.  What the hell am I?  The little wifey at home, barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen?”

“I have _never_ said _anything_ like–”

“You want me to be their mother!  I can’t just be that.  And I’m not going to sit here and pick out baby clothes and paint the nursery blue or pink or whatever.  I don’t want to learn how to change diapers and… and _breastfeed._   I’m Black Widow.  I’m an Avenger.  I’m not doing that.”

“Nobody says you need to – to…”  He felt a blush climb high on his cheeks.

“Breastfeed.  You can’t even say it.”

He ignored the bite in her voice.  “You don’t need to do that.”

“Good, because I’m not,” she said resolutely, folding her arms over her chest like she was challenging him to defy her.  “Thanks for your permission.”

He didn’t know what to do to make this better.  And he was getting a little sick and tired of trying and being abused for it.  “Don’t be like this.”

“Like what?  Like this?” she gestured to her stomach.  “You made me like this!”

This was among her favorite weapons against him.  He supposed on some level she might blame him, resent him for getting her pregnant.  She’d essentially said as much during the ordeal with Omega Red.  It hurt, even if he did silently agree.  And he knew that she really didn’t think that.  But when she was angry, she could be vicious.  “Don’t say that.  It was an accident, and you know it.”

“Then you deal with it!  You go through this!  You have them!”

Steve didn’t know whether to roll his eyes or worry that she was completely off her rocker.  Could hormones cause insanity?  Was a break from reality a normal symptom this late in pregnancy?  “Are you listening to yourself?”  She obstinately put her hands on her hips (which looked funnier than it should have, and that coupled with her glare almost made him laugh.  Almost).  Instead he sighed and humored her.  “If there was a way to trade places with you, I would.  You know I would.”

Of course she didn’t miss his almost smile.  “So you think this is funny.”  That glare turned positively murderous, and he thought better of even seeming the slightest bit amused.  “It’s not funny.  You and Stark and Thor, for crying out loud.  It’s not funny!”

“No, it’s not.”

The whirlwind of insanity continued building and building.  “I don’t want to do this,” she proclaimed, as if her will alone was capable of changing the inevitable.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”  That was true enough.  “It’s happening.  We’re having them.  They’re ready.”

 _“Well, I’m not!”_ she yelled.  Her eyes were wild, wet with newly forming tears.  “I’m not ready!  I don’t want to be ready!  I don’t want to do this!”  It was all coming out now.  He’d suspected this, of course.  It was obvious _why_ she’d been trying to ignore what was approaching.  “I can’t do it, Steve.  I just can’t.  You don’t want me to be like this?  You think I like it?  I hate it!  You don’t know what it’s like _._   I can’t do anything anymore.  I can’t fight.  I can’t run.  I can hardly walk.  I’m fat and slow and _useless._ ”

“Natasha, no, you’re not–”

“This isn’t who I am!”  Her words were coming faster.  All the sudden she was falling apart.  She wiped at her eyes, like she was ashamed to cry over this.  Over how she’d been lately.  There was no reason to be, because it really was okay.  He just wanted her to be happy.  And he knew she could be, _would be_.  “It’s not, and we both know it.  All of this?  We’re lying to ourselves.  And now Bruce is telling me it’s time, and I’ve been trying to convince myself that it will be alright, but it’s not.  It’s not alright.  I can’t do this.  I can’t.  I–”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and tugged her into him.  It was always a tad awkward hugging her now with the bulge of her belly between them, and she used that in a meager attempt to escape.  “No.  Come on.”  She shook her head against him.  “Come on,” he whispered into her hair.  “It’s okay.”  She sobbed into his shoulder but clamped down on it, rigid and uncomfortable.  He didn’t let her turn away from him, hugging her tighter until she relaxed into his chest.  “Come on, love.”  He kissed her forehead, rubbing his hand up and down her back.  “It’s okay to let go.”

That was all it took.  She curled her hands into his shirt, clinging as she quietly cried.  He could only tell she was doing it from her uneven breaths and a shudder or two wracking her frame.  A moment slipped away, his hands soothing away her worries.  “You know what?”  She didn’t answer.  “You outsmarted a genius and a computer today without even trying.  Not to mention putting your jerk of a husband in his place.  That’s a pretty big accomplishment.”  He could feel her smile.  It was soft, timid.  “You know what else will be a big accomplishment?”

“Steve…”

“Pretty soon they’re going to be here, and you’re going to bring them into this world,” he said softly, dropping one hand to her stomach.  “ _You._   That’s… that’s _amazing_ , Nat.  We’ve been waiting, and pretty soon they’re going to be here.  What Bruce told you isn’t a bad thing.”

She stiffened again slightly, but he didn’t let her pull away.  “I don’t know if I can do it,” she admitted in a shaking voice.  “Remember what I told you?  The first time we saw them.”

He remembered.  It had been one of the happiest moments of his life, seeing the wonder of his children for the first time and hearing her tentative love and hope.  He pulled back and cupped her face, lifting it.  He swept his thumbs over the tear tracks on her cheeks, brushing the wetness away.  “You told me you needed me.  That you couldn’t do this alone.”  Her eyes were wet and wide and searching.  “I’m going to be with you every step of the way, just like I promised I would be.  _Every_ step of the way.  But you wouldn’t need me even if I wasn’t.  You know that?  You can do this.  You can do this without me if you have to.  I’m not what makes you strong, Nat.  You are, and you’re stronger than you know.  I know you’re scared.”  He smiled broadly, his own eyes stinging a little.  “I’m scared, too.  I’m completely _terrified_.  I have no clue what I’m doing.  I don’t know how to take care of one baby, let alone two.  I don’t know if I can stand watching you be in pain when they’re born and not being able to stop it.  I don’t know how I can be who and what I am while still being the father I want to be.  But even with all that uncertainty I still know it will be alright.”

“How?” she whispered.

“Because I love you.  I know what you are, and I know what we have.  We can do anything.  And I know why you’re afraid, love.  I know what you’re thinking.  So you remember what I told you,” he said quietly, still tenderly caressing her face.  “I told you that you can be whoever you want to be.”  She tried to look away, unconvinced, but he wouldn’t let her.  “They’re coming, whether it’s tomorrow or next week or next month.  And when they do, you’re going to hold them in your arms, and they’re going to open their eyes and look at you for the first time, and you know what they’ll see?”  She shook her head.  He swept the thickness of her hair from her face where it had come loose and trapped it behind her ear.  “They’re not going to see Black Widow and all of her sins and secrets.  They won’t see Agent Romanoff.  They won’t see an assassin or a spy or any of these things that you think make you unworthy.  They’re going to see _you._   Their mother.  And that’s all that matters.”

Her face crumpled.  He could see he was getting through to her, maybe for the first time in weeks.  And maybe it was the hormones making her cry, but whatever it was, her eyes flooded with fresh tears.  Even still, she smiled, her cheeks heating with something of a blush.  He leaned back a little, smiling encouragingly.  “We’re going to have them, Nat.  Our son and our daughter.  It’s wonderful.  I can’t wait.”

“Me neither,” she admitted softly, timidly, but he knew it was heartfelt.

“C’mere.”  He tugged her close again, wrapping his arms securely around her.  Natasha pressed her face into his chest, linking her own arms around his waist.  Steve took a couple of deep breaths, so very thankful he’d gotten them both through this latest minefield without any significant damage.  When she pulled away again, she leaned up to kiss him.  It was gentle but turned more passionate, more loving.  He smiled after that.  “No more hiding please.  If you’re having contractions, tell Bruce.  Or tell me.  And you tell me what you want bought and I’ll make sure it gets done, okay?  Or if you want to go out and buy it yourself.  I’ll go with you.  I’ll do anything you want.”

“I’ll tell you,” she promised.  “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” he swore.  “I’m Captain America.  I’ve faced down hordes of Nazis and HYDRA and aliens from outer space.  My hormonal wife is up there but not quite on that level.”  She choked out something that was both a sob and a laugh, smacking him lightly on the arm.  “Come on.  It’s going to be okay.”

It took a bit more, but she nodded against him.  “Okay.”  He smiled again.  Then he dropped to his knees in front of her.  “What are you doing?”

“Groveling.”

_“Steve.”_

He nuzzled his face into her belly.  It felt hard as he pressed a kiss to it.  She wove her hands through his hair.  They were quiet a moment, the reality of the situation sinking into them both.  He wasn’t going to be able to do this much longer.  Pretty soon, the babies would be born, and he could hold them and kiss them for real.  And their lives would change completely.  “We gotta figure out what we’re gonna call them.”

Her voice was as low as his.  “I know.”

“It’s a sad situation when the only one coming up with names is Tony Stark.”  Again, he could feel her smile.  “He keeps suggesting them to me.”

“Me, too.”

“Anthony, Jr.  Antonia.  Mini-Cap and Cap-ette.”  The list went on.  Stark had come up with a lot of possibilities, and they were all awful.

“Tony needs to get over himself.  He is not going to name them.”

“Couldn’t agree more.”  Steve smiled as one of the babies did what felt like a somersault under his hand.  “Do you think that’s him or her?”

This was a game they’d played sometimes late at night in bed.  Well, he played it.  She’d told him he was an idiot and that there was no way to know.  This time she said, “It’s your son.  He’s a lot like you already.  Been causing me trouble all day.”

“Good job,” he whispered to her belly.  She swatted him on the head.  “Ow.”  She smiled, and he did, too.  Steve leaned closer, imagining how he would look.  _My son._   What name would be good?  What would be right?  How did you make a decision that huge without even knowing what the baby looked like?  He supposed that was one of his first duties as a parent, to give the right name to his child, so he better start figuring it out.  “What about–”

“Excuse me, Captain Rogers,” JARVIS said, “but Ms. Hill is calling for the Avengers to assemble.  It’s serious, sir.”

Steve looked up, his heart picking up its pace.  He stood.  Natasha reached for his face.  All of her good humor had vanished again, and he could see nothing but disquiet and resignation in her eyes.  Still, she kissed him hard and then gently pushed him away and toward the door.  “Go.”

He didn’t want to, but he had to, so he did.

* * *

“Nothing like an alien invasion to polish off your day,” Tony said as he flew the quinjet across the Atlantic as fast as he could.  They were streaking through the night sky at a ridiculous speed, cutting through silvery clouds.  So far so good.  He’d gotten his prototype jet into the air with no trouble, and the flight was proceeding smoothly.  This particular world disaster hadn’t had the common courtesy to occur in their backyard like the last alien invasion.  He could have flown the team in the quinjet Hill had resourced from the remains of SHIELD; apparently a great deal of SHIELD’s weapons, jets, and equipment had spread all over the world in the wake of its collapse.  Getting the jet had been something of a challenge (as much as trying to keep the treasure trove of SHIELD goodies off the black market was).  However, Tony always thought there was no time better than now to test something, so with equal parts pride, excitement, and worry, he’d ushered the team onto his new creation.

As though God was trying to teach him a lesson for being so cocky, an alarm started beeping.  “What the hell is that, Stark?” Barton demanded.  As the other member of the team rated as a pilot, Clint often shared the responsibility of flying them everywhere.

Tony jerked, reaching over to quickly flip a few switches and smack the console for good measure.  “Nothing.  Glitch in the auto-pilot.”

“This is why I keep telling you not to test the equipment out in the field,” Rogers reminded from further behind the cockpit.

Tony rolled his eyes.  “Explain to me how you’re supposed to get an accurate idea of how things hold up in a battle situation without testing them _in_ a battle situation.”  That was logical enough, but Captain Stick-Up-His-Ass never seemed satisfied with logic.  “Don’t tell me that my old man never stuck a gun in your hands and told you to try it out.”

Steve cocked his head as if he was considering that.  A rattle of turbulence (which, by the way, had nothing to do with the stability of his invention) caused him to grab the top of the jet to steady himself.  “A gun can’t crash,” he said.  “And I didn’t like it when your dad did it, either.”

 _Like father, like son._   Tony dismissed the bitter thought almost the instant he had it.  Truth be told, in the last few months most of the reservations he’d had about working closely with Rogers had disappeared.  They were complete opposites, and if it hadn’t been for the Avengers and the fact that Steve had known and worked with Tony’s father, they’d have no common ground between them.  Tony’s relationship with Howard had been anything but simple, thanks in no small part to the fact that Howard had spent most of Tony’s childhood futilely searching for Captain America.  That had bred a great deal of resentment in Tony and a great deal of insecurity as though he wasn’t as good as Captain America.  He’d never been _worthy_ of Howard’s time, money, and affection, not like Captain America had been.  That bitterness had stuck with him for years, through countless moments of never living up to his father’s expectations, countless times spent struggling for his approval and attention.  Even after Howard’s death, it had taken so much for him to come to terms with the legacy he’d been given, his own near demise at the hands of palladium poisoning included.  It had been his genius and Howard’s faith in him that brought him through that, and he’d finally started to make some peace with the man Howard had been.

Until SHIELD had found and thawed out Captain America.

In some ways, Steve Rogers was everything Tony had expected him to be.  Everything Howard had lauded as the perfect man.  He was strong and courageous.  Self-righteous.  Moral and polite and infallible.  He was _everything_ Tony hated.  A tool, a piece of outdated propaganda, a brawny idiot too stupid to do anything but follow orders.  A symbol of everything Tony wasn’t and never would be.  In other ways, however, Steve hadn’t fit the image of Captain America with which he’d grown up at all.  Underneath the mask and the shield, Steve was quiet and serious, but he had a sassy side that Tony had to respect.  He was smart, world-wise, and a capable, stalwart leader.  It was hard to hate him because he was a good guy, a good friend, loyal and true.  Obviously there was something more to him than his ridiculously iron-clad morals if he’d managed to bag Black Widow.  She was about as far from him in terms of personality, ideology, and history imaginable, but they seemed extremely happy together, despite all the hell through which they’d gone to get to where they were now.  It hadn’t taken Tony long to realize Natasha was very much Steve’s complement and vice versa, and he couldn’t help but be happy for them.

Of course, there were other things about Rogers that drove him goddamn nuts.  The guy had no toleration for any flare in the field.  He expected his orders to be followed without deviation.  When the situation was serious, he had absolutely no sense of humor.  He wanted teamwork, and Tony wasn’t the sort who complied with and conformed to those sorts of restrictions easily.  They butted heads a lot; Steve was in charge of the Avengers, but Tony was paying for and designing everything, so there was naturally a cause for conflict there, their disparate personalities notwithstanding.  Things weren’t always smooth-sailing.  A work in progress, Tony felt.  Every time the Avengers went out, they were beta-testing the team dynamics as much as they were new equipment.

And then, of course, there was the little matter of the fact that Steve’s old war buddy, Bucky Barnes, had murdered Tony’s parents.  That tended to add tension to any friendship.  Barnes had been captured by HYDRA during the war.  He’d been tortured and brainwashed into becoming the Winter Soldier, the world’s deadliest assassin and the fist of HYDRA, SHIELD, and the Red Room.  Howard had told young Tony endless stories about Captain America and his Howling Commandos, Barnes among them.  He and Steve had been best friends since childhood, inseparable throughout the war until Barnes had fallen to his supposed death.  Tony had never thought anything of him until he’d shown up at his Tower during the collapse of SHIELD under orders from HYDRA to retrieve the USB stick containing Project: Insight’s targeting algorithm at all costs.  The cost had nearly been Rogers’ life, and Barnes hadn’t known or cared.  After that fiasco and all of SHIELD’s secrets ended up in the internet, Tony had been doing some digging through the cyber wreckage and had discovered the fact that the Winter Soldier had, in fact, caused the accident that had killed his parents in 1991.  Needless to say, even though his parents’ deaths were twenty-five years in the past, this had dredged up all sorts of demons.  And the fact that Steve had gone after Barnes, trying to rescue him and bring him _back_ , hadn’t sat well with Tony one bit.  He still didn’t know what he felt about it, that his parents had been assassinated by HYDRA and their murderer was roaming the world.  He didn’t know how he felt about Steve’s relationship with him; no matter what, Barnes was Steve’s friend, and Tony knew given the chance, Steve would try to redeem him.  Tony didn’t want Barnes’ redemption.  Jail or death would be a hell of lot more appropriate in his book.

Thankfully, since the events with Lukin and Omega Red, since Steve had led Barnes go, Steve hadn’t brought it up again.  He’d married Natasha, settled in Avengers Tower to lead the team, and focused on that and the imminent birth of their twins.  Still, Tony felt like he was waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop.  Barnes _was_ out there, doing who knew what, and there was no way they’d seen the last of him.

All of that was neither here nor there right now.  _Right.  Alien invasion._   “What can you tell us about these things, Thor?”  Apparently some sort of large, insectoid alien creatures were emerging from the London underground just southeast of the city.  A large number of them were flooding the streets, huge bug-like things with claws and pincers and wings.  Ugly bastards.  Hill had caught the early newsfeeds and immediately dispatched the team.  _Just another day in my life._

“Thankfully a good deal,” the Asgardian declared.  “I have fought them before.  They are the Kretal, an insectoid menace common to Vanaheim.”

“Where the hell is that?” Wilson asked.

“It is one of the Nine Realms,” Thor explained.  “It seems more likely this is an infestation as opposed to an invasion.  I spoke briefly with my lady Jane and she thinks they perhaps were brought to earth during the Convergence.  It would take but one Kretal escaping into this realm to create a nest.”

“Sounds fantastic,” Clint muttered darkly, holding his bow to his chest.

“Can we stop them?” Steve asked.

“Yes,” Thor responded confidently.  “Kretal have limited intelligence.  Their outer shells are tough but not tough enough to withstand our weapons.  In terms of fierce beasts among the Nine Realms, they are a lesser threat.  Their strength comes in numbers.”

Tony didn’t like the sound of that.  “A swarm?”

“Yes.  They can number in the hundreds.  A large nest can bolster thousands.”

Given it had been more than a year since the Convergence that had bridged the interdimensional gap between the Nine Realms, a large nest seemed likely.  He gripped the flight stick of the new quinjet harder.  London was just ahead.  They’d be there in two minutes.  “Sounds like we should have brought the Jolly Green giant.”  Of course, Banner would have been less than amenable to that idea, and they all knew it.  Bruce had refused to fight with the team since the insanity serum incident, and engaging with a massive number of enemies in a civilian area?  He would never have had agreed.  Tony liked Bruce a great deal; they had very similar interests, obsessions, and even similar personalities, when it came down to it.  But this rampant fear of himself, this doubt?  Tony didn’t get that.  The insanity serum hadn’t been a catalyst, fueling a fire that had already been there.  It had been _the_ cause, and he knew Bruce could control himself again if he tried.  Banner had a tendency to run from his problems.  So did Tony, so he knew how pointless it was.  Bruce needed to make peace with the monster somehow.

Steve sighed and shook his head.  “It’s a moot point now.  Where is this nest?”

“Jane is trying to locate it,” Thor responded.  “Kretal like energy and heat.”

There was one place in the vicinity that had that in abundance.  “Under the power plant?” Tony offered.

Thor’s voice was grave and his face was grim.  “Yes, that was what she thought.”

This was getting better by the second.  “Can they shut down the plant?” Steve asked.

“I would not recommend that.  If there is a nest there, removing the energy source will cause it to disperse.  The impact on the city would be devastating.  The Kretal cannot be reasoned with.  They are aggressive and territorial.”  Thor set his jaw confidently.  “I believe I can create a lightning storm sufficient to lure the swarm away from the city’s power generators.  If it is large enough, we can bring the Kretal elsewhere and destroy them.”

“So you basically want to create a giant bug zapper,” Sam clarified.

Thor glanced at him.  “Yes, that’s an apt description.”

“Alright,” Steve said.  Tony could practically hear him switching into Captain America.  “Anything else we need to know about these things?  Are they poisonous?”

“Not to my knowledge.  They are feral, but as I said, they are not strong.  The adult Kretal can fly.”

“Convenient.  So can we,” Tony said.

“What do we have in terms of support?” Steve asked.

“Hill’s trying to scramble the Royal Air Force and local authorities,” Tony said, “but we’re on our own until then.”  This was the sort of thing SHIELD had typically handled.  As much as Tony had despised SHIELD, he had to admit that he felt just a bit better knowing Nick Fury had been on top of any situation.

Steve wasn’t pleased, but he gathered himself quickly.  “ETA?”

“One minute until we land.”

“Alright.”  Steve turned to the team.  “Until Thor can do what he needs to do, our top priority’s containment.  Tony, Sam, if these things are in the air, bring them down.  We can’t let even one of them get away and rebuild another nest elsewhere.  Clint, you and I will clear the streets and protect the citizens.  Thor, I’m going to defer to your judgment on this.  You call the shots about clearing the nest.”

Ahead Tony saw England.  They descended through the clouds to a dark world.  “I would suggest we not disturb the nest until we are ready,” Thor added.  “Disrupting it could lead to disaster.”

“Right,” Steve agreed.  “Gear up.”

Tony stayed in the pilot’s chair as the others got ready, guiding the quinjet down.  He hadn’t had the chance to install JARVIS here yet, and he didn’t trust the auto-pilot to manage it with the glitches it had been having.  He swung low through a cold, steady drizzle.  It was after midnight, which was probably fortunate.  And this place wasn’t located in the more populated areas of London.  Still, this could get out of control fast.   As he flipped the switches to angle the engines to hover, something smacked into the front of the jet.  Something huge and black.  Tony nearly jumped out of his seat.  A splatter of goopy guts appeared across the thick glass, and the carcass of the alien slid off as he swung the jet a little faster to knock it loose.  “Brings a whole new meaning to bug on a windshield.”

“Lovely,” Sam commented.

Tony cocked an eyebrow and continued to maneuver the quinjet down.  He’d picked an empty field not far from the power plant and the neighborhoods around it that were presumably being terrorized.  The jet landed, and he raced through powering it down to standby.  Then he was up and out of his chair, turning to the back of the fuselage and thumbing his phone in his pocket.  Iron Man’s eyes winked to life, bright and powerful, and the suit dismantled as it left its alcove.  The pieces enveloped him rapidly and precisely, and a breath later he was inside his armor.  The HUD immediately came to life.  Steve was snapping on his helmet and sliding his shield to his back.  Clint had already nocked an arrow to his bow.  Sam was pulling his googles down over his eyes; this latest model was infrared and would probably be extremely useful given the conditions outside.  Thor gripped Mjölnir firmly.  “Are we ready?” the Asgardian asked.

“Sure.  Be nice to do something different than wiping out HYDRA,” Sam said when he was through checking his guns.

“Just call us the exterminators,” Tony said, miming like he was loading a shotgun with his right arm.  “Let’s do this.”

Steve jabbed his thumb into the rear ramp release, and they ran outside into the cold night.  The sound of distant shrieks, human and not, filled the air.  The Avengers scattered, Steve and Clint heading towards the ruckus in the darkened streets, Sam, Tony, and Thor taking to the sky.  Immediately the HUD filled with targets.  There were dozens of them.  “Jesus.  J?”

“Sixty-two total aliens, sir.”  _Shit._   “They appear to be coming onto the streets from a storm drain approximately five hundred feet northwest of your current location.”

“Thor!” Tony hollered.  “Over there!”  He pointed in the direction of the storm access, and Thor was off, Mjölnir spinning in his hand too fast to see.  “Falcon!”

“I see ’em!” Sam yelled over comms.  His new wings, trimmed in red, were sleek and powerful as he flew closer.  Together they dove into the streets to engage the Kretal.  Tony powered up his palm repulsors, shooting at the mass of Kretal climbing up an apartment building.  Sam was right beside him, his machine guns spraying bullets, and the bugs took to the sky the minute the first of the shots hit.  With the aid of infrared scanners, Tony got a decent look at the things.  They were tall, probably over seven feet, and they looked like a cross between the aliens from _Aliens_ and millipedes.  Tony’s stomach clenched a little, and his heart pumped faster.  A cold sweat broke out on his back.  He hated millipedes.  And he hated _Aliens._   “Stark!”

“On it,” he returned, banking upward to strike a few Kretal trying to break away.  The targets were hit with repulsor blasts and fell to the ground, very much dead.  Thor was right; these things didn’t have much in terms of protection, despite what looked like some sort of chitin exoskeleton.  His weapons cut right through it.  “Like a knife through butter,” he murmured smugly.

“Avengers,” Hill said.  Her voice cut over the comm link, a video link of the connection with her bright in the lower right corner of the HUD.  “I’ve coordinated an evacuation with the Metropolitan Police Force.  Get the civilians northward as soon as possible.”

“Roger,” came Steve’s response.  Tony turned, pausing for a second from blasting the Kretal from the sky to see Captain America’s shield glisten wetly in the golden light of street lamps as it spun toward some dark blobs.  Steve himself followed, landing an impressive roundhouse kick into the chest of the closest bug.  The infrared signature didn’t do these things justice.  They were absolutely hideous, with two monstrous arms near the tops of their shelled thoraxes.  Each of those ended in wicked claws, three of them as long as knives.  A thick tail lined in legs extended from their bodies, and they were whipping those around at Rogers, thankfully too slow to hit him.  “Iron Man, Falcon, keep them off us while we get the people out.  We’re going to sweep the streets.  Hawkeye, you with me?”

“Always,” Clint said.  He was further down the road, following behind Steve as they pushed the bugs back toward the plant.  His bow was singing as he fired shot after shot.  His arrows were expertly aimed despite the heavy darkness, jabbing in between the plates of exoskeletons and igniting with loud bangs, one after another.  The explosive arrows were taking down the monsters by the handful.  Clint was breaking to bang on doors, shouting for the denizens to come out and flee.  He was keeping one eye on Cap and one eye on the civilians he was ushering out onto the street, and Tony knew both would be safe.  Whatever else he thought about Clint, he was the best set of eyes Tony had ever seen.

“What are you doing, Stark?  Napping?” Wilson chided.  He had that note in his voice that Tony had quickly come to associate with actually having fun.  Sam was a good guy, a little too straight-laced for Tony’s liking, but a bit of a thrill-seeker, and that was laudable.

“Look alive,” Steve ordered.  “Push ’em back.”

“Aye-aye, Cap,” Tony responded, and the wet night was alive with repulsor fire as he exterminated.  The fight went on unabated for quite a few minutes, Falcon and Iron Man in the sky, blocking the bugs’ advance, and Captain America and Hawkeye on the ground, evacuating the area and keeping the swarm occupied.  Tony swooped low, firing left and right, blowing aliens away like this was some sort of a game.  Just like fish in a barrel.  “Just like bulls-eyeing womp rats,” he said to himself.

“I hardly think a T-16 is comparable to the Mark XLIII, sir,” JARVIS huffed indignantly, and Tony couldn’t help but laugh.  He set down next to Steve, firing a long repulsor blast at his shield which Steve swung in an arc to slice the alien menace into halves.  “More than half of the Kretal have been destroyed.  However, more are escaping through the storm drain.”

“Bonus,” Tony said.  “Cap, I’m going to stem the tide.”

Steve didn’t answer immediately.  Tony could see why.  He now had a couple of kids, one in his arms and another hanging onto his waist, and he was rushing their horrified parents out of their house.  He prodded and carried and ushered them away as Clint stood further up the street, unloading arrows at the Kretal crawling and scrambling around a corner.  Behind them sirens were blaring, and flashing lights filled the dark, winding streets.  Police, EMTs, and fire rescue were coming in force.  JARVIS identified officers on the HUD as they helped direct the terrified droves of people away from the battle.  It looked like things were well in hand.  “Cap?” Tony prompted.

“Be careful and come right back,” Steve said.  He set the kids down and raced back to the front.  “All due respect to Clint, but you’re the best eyes we have right now, Stark.”

“Not offended,” Clint responded with that empty tone he always seemed to have of late.  Tony didn’t know the archer all that well.  Most of the lead-up to the Battle of New York he’d spent under Loki’s control, and the Avengers hadn’t hung around together afterward for more than a few hours filled with exhaustion, comfortable silence, and shawarma.  Still, what had happened during the fall of SHIELD last year had been nothing short of a complete fucked-up mess, what with Barton being forced to play for the wrong side for a while.  And since he’d had come back from the dead, he’d been quiet.  Subdued.  Very clearly not himself (not that Tony had any idea of what “himself” was, but not this).  Dark and defeated.  “Cap, ten o’clock!”

Steve moved fast but not as fast as Hawkeye, and the Kretal screamed in an awful, guttural voice, falling dead before it had the chance to skewer Captain America.  An arrow was protruding from its chest, put there with enough strength to punch through its shell.  Steve whirled, breathless with the close call.  “Thanks.”  He recovered in a blink.  He always did.  “Sam, there are some people on the roofs there.  See them?”

Tony didn’t wait to hear Wilson’s response, jetting away.  _Stem the tide._   He could see the storm drain a couple hundred feet ahead.  It was maybe twelve feet wide, an old rusty thing that had been broken open by the Kretal.  The black blobs crawled out like this was some sort of sick and twisted birth, dumping themselves into the crick that was outside the power plant before scrambling upright.  _Gross._   “JARVIS, talk to me.  Can I just blast this thing shut?”

“I would not recommend that,” JARVIS said.  “Thor may be inside.  I cannot get a stable lock on his location.  His comm signal is poor, likely being hindered by interference from the power generators inside the plant.”

Tony didn’t like the sound of this.  “Thor, come in.”  There was no answer.  He raised his palm repulsors again, blasting at the insectoids escaping from the storm drain.  He dodged an attack, flying to the left, and dropped the winged bastard trying to slash him.  “Thor, respond.”

“Is he off comms?” Hawkeye asked.

“Negative,” Tony explained.

There was a burst of static and Thor’s deep voice underneath it.  Whatever he was saying was indecipherable.  Tony gritted his teeth, circling around the storm drain and blasting bug after bug as they emerged from it.  They were coming faster, and Tony was struggling to keep up.  “Maybe these things aren’t intelligent, but I think the secret’s out that we’re ‘disrupting’ the nest.”

“Indeed, sir,” JARVIS agreed.  “The creatures emit some sort of sonar pulse, perhaps as a form of communication.  I believe I can use this to locate the nest.”  The HUD winked as the display shifted, and the image the AI brought up was depicting hundreds of targets just beyond the storm drain, descending deep underground through the labyrinth of the sewer system.  There was no telling how many more could be there.  Thor had said it could number in the thousands.  _Thousands._

He could certainly hold this for a while, but if that mass of aliens got out onto the street, it would be a disaster.  The Avengers would be overrun.  It was just like it had been back in New York.  They could fight the foot soldiers all the live long day, but unless they stopped this at its source…  “Screw this,” Tony muttered.  “I’m going in.”

The response was predictable.  For being such a brilliant military strategist, Rogers had no vision.  “Stark, hold your position.  Keep them from flooding the streets.”

“If we need to make a bug zapper, I can do that just as well as Thor,” Tony argued.  He was already blasting his way inside the storm drain, JARVIS guiding his aim much faster than he could manage alone.  The black, wet tunnel was alive with light, the thunder of his weapons echoing as much as the screams of the aliens he was obliterating.  “Or I can just blow the crap out of them before they have a chance to mobilize.  You’ve got it covered out there.”

“That’s not the point!” Wilson barked.

“I can handle this,” Tony returned.  He already was.

“Iron Man, stop!  Thor is handling the nest!”  Steve’s voice was rough with anger and exasperation.  “We need you out here!  Hold your position!”

“Yeah, how about no,” Tony muttered under his breath.  He had a chance to shut this whole thing down now, and he was going to take it.  Doing anything else seemed plain stupid.  And this wasn’t about proving anything, let alone the fact that he was right sometimes.  He fired the thrusters in his boots, zooming through the storm drain at blinding speeds.  JARVIS had localized the nest, and he was guiding Tony through the maze of tunnels.  “Don’t worry, guys.  I got this.”

“Stark, _hold your position!_   That’s an order!” Steve shouted.  Tony had never heard Steve yell quite like that before, and it was almost enough to make him rethink this.  Almost.  Instead he flew onward, blasting as he went.  The storm drain opened into a cavern that was most definitely not man-made.  Obviously these things had dug themselves this huge, vacuous, dark home.  It looked for a moment like there was something wet along the walls, floor, and ceiling, shimmering like waves of an inky sea.  Moisture from somewhere?

 _No._ He realized what it was.  “Oh, shit.”

“My count may not be accurate due to the EM interference and their close proximity to each other, but I estimate there to be 1,567 Kretal in this cavern.”

“This is bad.”

“Yes.  They will swarm you should they attack.”

That seemed fairly obvious.  “Do I have enough power to wipe them out?”

“Unknown, sir.  It is impossible for me to calculate that.”

Tony gritted his teeth, watching the Kretal shift uneasily.  He felt like he was mucking around with a bomb, and one bad move would set it off.  “Can I generate enough power to draw them away?”  That had been his original plan, after all.

JARVIS sounded exasperated.  “Unknown.  I cannot calculate that.  And even if you could, the cavern is sealed save for the storm drain.  To where would you draw them?”

 _Fuck._   He needed to go back out and wait for Thor.  He was wrong.  He couldn’t handle this.

Unfortunately, it seemed like that wasn’t going to be an option.  The cavern rumbled, low at first, then louder and louder.  The shaking disturbed the Kretal, and they shifted again with a flutter of wings and legs.  “What was that?” Tony asked, Iron Man’s sensors scanning desperately.  With all the electrical interference from the plant, it was difficult to get a read on anything.

“I cannot say,” JARVIS declared, “but I believe the vibration is originating above the cavern.”

“In the plant?”

“Yes.”

“Thor?”

“Possibly.”

Tony could only hope.  “Cap, come in.”  Only static answered.  Now he was too close to the power generators for his comms to work.  “Cap, do you copy?”  Nothing.  Frustration and not a small amount of fear rippled through him as the vibrations got worse and the bugs became more unsettled.  “Thor?  Does anyone copy?”

“Sir,” JARVIS prompted, “I believe now would be the optimal time to retreat.”

Tony turned to do just that, but it was too late.  The ceiling of the cavern exploded, equal parts flying rocks and parts of bugs, and Thor was there.  Mjölnir was singing through the air and completely bathed in lightning.  It was almost blinding, the crackle of bolts crawling over the hammer and Thor alike.  If there’d ever been any doubt that this man was the God of Thunder, this pretty much eradicated them.

Then his eyes, so deeply blue and narrowed with concentration, settled on Tony.  The lightning storm faltered.

And the bugs went wild.

_“Shit!”_

Chaos broke out as the swarm of them scattered.  Some could fly, and they immediately took off, black wings and hideous faces.  The rest ran around wildly.  Thor was raging, shooting lightning all over to attempt to control the mess.  Tony unleashed every weapon in his arsenal.  Missiles and repulsors and even chaff.  It wasn’t going to be enough, not to kill a thousand aliens.  “Tell me we have a plan!” Tony gasped to JARVIS.  “Tell me we have a plan!”

“We had one,” JARVIS responded.  “You opted to do your own thing, as you so often put it.”

“Don’t be a smart ass!  Thor!”

Somehow Thor’s voice was audible over the din.  “Keep them from escaping!”

Tony tried, backing up to the entrance of the cavern.  For a long minute, that was all he could do.  There were so many, _so many,_ a whirlwind of violent, wild, senseless animals trying to flee.  He fired and fired until warnings flashed across the HUD that he was running out of energy.  “Damn it!”

Thor was clearly trying to lure them away, up and out of the hole in the ceiling he’d made.  The Kretal closest to him were seemingly entranced by the energy he was producing, but it was too chaotic to get the attention of all of them.  He was trying, but whenever he managed to build up enough lightning to lure them closer, he was forced to expend it to protect himself or Tony.  Tony flew from the storm drain and up into the plant itself, realizing that their admirable efforts were at best triage.  They needed to finish this.  “I’m gonna shut the plant down!” he cried to whomever was listening.  JARVIS had already isolated a key power coupling that would disable the generators without damaging them or risking an explosion.  All it took was one repulsor blast and the plant (and probably most of London) went dark.

Now Thor was truly the only light in the world.  He gave a cry of effort, jumping clear from the bottom of the cavern into the building above.  He raised Mjölnir, gathering lightning from the sky where he’d clearly blown a hole through the ceiling.  The clouds overhead cracked open, bolts of blinding white encasing Thor as he flew upward.  Tony watched in awe for a moment, the storm of energy around Thor getting brighter and bigger.  It was amazing.

And the bugs were going with him.

Thor was flying slowly so as to keep the swarm as intact as possible.  Tony stood to the side, JARVIS automatically dimming the HUD to protect his eyes from the brightness.  “Sir,” he warned.

“I see them.”  He fired his palm repulsors again, picking off a few of the stragglers that had broken free from the huge mass of Kretal following Thor up and out of the plant.  Not one of the bugs could be left alive, so he used the rest of the suit’s energy killing those that hadn’t gone with the swarm.  Seeing the vast majority of the enemy dead or gone and the plant quiet around him, Tony couldn’t help his smile.  “Job well done?”

Whatever JARVIS was about to say was interrupted by a massive shadow ramming him.  Alarms blared across the HUD as he was battered, shock jolting over him in a painful wave.  “Fuck!” he groaned, scrambling to right himself as he was struck again.  A massive claw careened at him, deadly and quick, and he was hit across the chest and thrown.  The world turned into a dizzying streak of black and flashing emergency lights as he hit a control console on the other side of the room.  Damage reports flooded his HUD.  “What the hell?”

A massive Kretal, very clearly different from the others, emerged from the shadows.  It was over ten feet tall, disgusting, and the sheer number of legs it had was disturbing.  Its body was long, bulbous, and ugly.  It had numerous eyes, and all of them were malignantly focused on Tony.  “Crap,” Tony whispered.  “This really is _Aliens._ ”

“A queen?” JARVIS asked.

It didn’t matter.  It came after him, probably pissed that he’d wrecked the nest, and he barely got clear in time.  He turned and fired a long repulsor blast at it, but his weapons weren’t enough to just drop this thing like they had been for every one of the others.  _Not good._   He scrambled out of the way as it screamed a shrill shriek, swiping at him with those claws.  He didn’t have the power left in his suit for a protracted battle against something this strong.  _Not good!  Not good!_

The alien pinned him.  It was about to hit him again, about to drive that massive claw down into him, when a blur of dark blue and glistening red and shining silver dropped in front of him.  The blow struck vibranium, the distinctive hum nearly shaking the room it was so potent.  “I told you to stay put!” Steve snarled as he pushed the creature back.  “Damn it, Stark!  Do you ever listen?”

Tony gritted his teeth at the admonishment, wheeling around and powering up his weapons.  “No.  Listening is for plebes.  JARVIS, find me a weak spot.”

“Working on it, sir.  I suggest you save your remaining power.”

Tony fired the last of his missiles from his left shoulder compartment at the beast, and it howled, staggering back with a revolting shudder of its umpteen legs.  It wriggled and undulated and flung itself away from the blows with surprising alacrity given its unwieldy size.  Its massively long tail swung around and smacked roughly into Steve.  His shield took most of the hit, but it was wrenched from his hands.  It hit the ground somewhere in the shadows with a rattle.  “Keep it busy, Cap!  I’ve got one good shot left!”

“Make it count!” Steve shouted, ducking another blow and returning with a series of lightning-quick strikes of his own.  They didn’t do much damage, but they were enough to distract the monster.

“Steve!  Tony!”  Sam’s voice crackled in their ears.  With the power plant shut down, their comms were working again.  “Thor’s got the swarm!  He’s headed south to the channel!”

Steve back flipped away from another stab of the claw.  “Stay with him!” he ordered.  “Make sure all the bugs go–”  His voice turned into a ragged, pained cry.  Tony watched in horror as the Kretal caught him with its claws, right across the chest.  Without his shield to protect him, the blow hit hard.  He saw Steve’s suit tear, saw blood bright and red.  The alien shrieked in fury, spinning around with all of its impressive force, and clipped Steve again with its tail.  Rogers was knocked back dozens of feet and he hit the floor roughly.  He slid to a stop.  He didn’t get up.

Panic – _horror_ – lanceted through Tony.  JARVIS had finally located the beast’s weak spot where whatever passed for its heart was and had calculated a confined repulsor blast would be just enough to destroy the alien’s protective shell.  Tony gritted his teeth and aimed.  The shot struck true, and the Kretal was screamed as he burned a hole right into its massive chest.  It fell to the ground in a smoking heap, dead and oozing.

 _Oh, no.  No. No._ Tony couldn’t breathe.  He couldn’t think.  All he could see was Steve, laying on his side in the shadows and _not moving._   _Oh, my God!_   “Cap’s down!” he cried hoarsely.  “Does anyone copy?  _Cap’s down!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to the wonderful [vbprodz](http://vbprodz.tumblr.com) for artwork inspired by this chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

“Nat, it’s fine.”

That seemed like the hundredth time Steve had said that.  And it wasn’t doing a damn thing to make any of this better.

“No, it’s not fine!”  Natasha’s eyes were absolutely _burning_.  Clint had seen her angry plenty of times in the past.  It was usually a quiet anger, the sort that had you shivering in abject terror because of how cool and calculated and _deadly_ it was.  This… this was a full-out explosion of hormone-induced, psychopathic _fury._   Her body was rigid, her posture stiff as a board, her face so tight with a scowl Clint could have sworn he could hear her teeth crack.  And with her arm around her belly, dressed as she was in a loose, comfortable sweater that did nothing to hide how pregnant she was and stretchy leggings, it was almost comical the way she looked.  Almost.  “It’s not!”

The alien infestation in London was nearly three hours behind them.  Thor had been successful in obliterating the swarm of Kretal.  He’d single-handedly lured the insects down to the English Channel, and then (as if that hadn’t been remarkable enough, that he’d generated enough heat and electricity on his own to keep over a thousand creatures lulled and complacent) he’d destroyed them all over the water.  Of course, his massive accomplishment hadn’t been answered with the accolades it might have normally received because the entire team had gathered in the power plant at Tony’s horrified declaration that Captain America had gone down.  And, of course, by the time Sam and Clint had arrived, Steve had already been awake.  A little dazed and confused but awake and cognizant.  He hadn’t even needed anyone to help him to his feet, though they had all tried.  The shock of the close call had left them all shaken and reeling, even as it became more and more obvious that Steve was alright.

There’d been an hour or so after that of coordinating with the relief crews, securing the site and exterminating any of the Kretal who’d been left behind.  JARVIS had been able to derive a quick detection system using the sonar pulses the aliens emitted, so finding those still alive had been easier than it otherwise would have been.  The wounded insects had met swift ends, Iron Man and Falcon scouring the surrounding streets and putting them out of their misery.  Stark had been rather silent during all of that, surprisingly acquiescent.  Clint had stayed with Steve, watching as the adrenaline rush of the battle faded and the captain had crumpled a bit without it.  He’d helped the other man out to the slew of EMTs and police, where Steve had allowed the paramedics to tend to his chest while he bridged the gap among local law enforcement, emergency responders, and Hill back in New York, who was managing the press and trying to bring in whatever armed forces she could.  Worried even if Rogers seemed perfectly fine, Clint had remained near him.  However, as the minutes had turned to an hour without any sign of ill effects from being clawed and hit so hard, he’d allowed himself to relax.  Steve was up and directing the rest of the evacuation and pulling his team together in providing aid to the locals like nothing had happened, completely whole and hale and in his element.

They’d flown back to New York, tired, covered in bug guts, and oddly quiet given the enormity of the success of the mission.  The mood had been a strange combination of tense and somber.  Steve had sat on one of the benches in the back of the jet, Sam pressed close to him, watching him.  Thor was concerned as well, standing stiffly with Mjölnir still clenched in his hand though the threat was long vanquished.  And Clint had still stayed close.  Natasha had never asked it of him ( _never_ ), but he’d silently taken the responsibility on himself anyway.  Make sure Rogers was okay.  Make sure he didn’t get hurt, that he came home in one piece, that he returned to her.  This had been disturbing, and nobody quite wanted to address it.  Once halfway through the flight, Steve had firmly declared that he was fine, that they could stop staring at him like he was about to collapse.  Still, his voice hadn’t had its normal bravado, and they all knew why.  Natasha had contacted them quite a few times.  Clint had fielded her calls; it was instantly agreed upon that he was the closest to her outside of Steve and therefore the least likely to be destroyed by her wrath.  And her wrath was exactly what he’d heard and seen over the comm link with the Tower.  She’d already been well aware that Steve was alright, that his injuries weren’t serious, but that hadn’t done much to lessen her concern.  Or her anger.  That was silent, well contained for the moment but simmering beneath the surface.  Building and building.  Threatening, and they all knew it.  The entirety of the team was on edge and depressed, knowing what was lying in wait at home.

And when Tony had landed the new quinjet at the top of the Tower, any hope that Natasha might have come to her senses (or at the very least gone to bed – it was after midnight again, for the second night in a row no less) was dashed by seeing her waiting for them just beyond the landing pad.  When they’d spotted her, her arms obstinately folded across her chest and _seething_ , Clint couldn’t decide who was paler: Steve or Tony.

Now that they were in the safety of the Tower’s infirmary, it was pretty clear to everyone that Steve was the _only_ one still acting like this mission of theirs had been a failure.  He’d been doing nothing but apologizing, if not with actual words than with the shameful, defeated posture of his body as Bruce had helped him out of his uniform top and the shredded under armor beneath it.  He was trying to placate Natasha, to soothe her and assure her that everything was fine and he wasn’t that hurt, that there was nothing over which to be so upset.  All to no avail.  And Tony…  Well, Tony’s moment of regret was rapidly fading given that Steve seemed to be perfectly fine and Natasha was bordering on certifiable insanity.  “Hey, ease off, Red,” the inventor said, the color returning to his cheeks suggesting he wasn’t quite so intimidated anymore.  At least, not enough to be quiet about it.  “Everyone’s alright.  No harm done.”

“Bullshit!” she snapped.  She jabbed a finger towards Steve, who was looking more and more like he wanted to crawl under the examination table and _hide._   He probably would have had it not been for Bruce trying to get at the wounds under the bandages and Thor’s comforting hand firmly placed on his shoulder.  Underneath the grime of battle, the soldier was even whiter than he had been.  And not because of the close call.  Because his wife was on the rampage and he couldn’t stop her.  Natasha raged at Tony.  _Raged._ “He told you to hold your position!  This would have never happened if you’d listened to him!  If he hadn’t had to go in there and save you!”

“ _What_ would never have happened?” Tony returned in annoyance.  “ _Nothing_ did!  He’s fine.  And he didn’t come in and save me!  I had it under control.  _Completely_ under control.  What’s the big deal?  We stopped the swarm and put down the queen bee.  No one got hurt.  Not one civilian casualty.”

Normally that was a hell of an accomplishment.  Right here and right now, Natasha wasn’t appeased.  “He’s the one who makes the calls in the field!  He’s the leader.  You’re supposed to _listen to him_ , not do whatever the hell you want because you think you’re better than everyone else!  You and your goddamn ego!”  Apparently she was all-in on this.  No holds barred.  Aiming to _hurt._

There went the last shred of Tony’s fear.  “I had a chance to stop the situation from getting any worse, and I took it.”

“I was watching the whole thing, Stark.  I _heard_ it.  Thor had it under control,” Natasha returned firmly, “and don’t you _dare_ tell me otherwise.”

He dared.  “Thor wouldn’t have been able to shut down the plant and get the swarm out of there if it hadn’t been for me.  No offense to him, but he wouldn’t have known which power relay to blow without damaging the generators.”  He turned to the Asgardian.  “Right?”

Thor seemed downright shocked that he’d been dragged into this.  He was slack-jawed, for once completely uncertain of what to say.  His eyes darted among the team.  “Uh…  I feel I am woefully unqualified to render an opinion on that.”

“Cop out!” Sam coughed.

Clint couldn’t help a small smile.  Thor glared at him, and Sam cleared his throat and looked away to hide his own grin.  “The Man of Iron was instrumental in my efforts to control the Kretal.  However…”  The demigod winced slightly.  “I believe he should have followed his orders.  In so far as he could have.”  It was an answer but not an answer at the same time.  Bravo for tap-dancing.  At Natasha’s withering appraisal, Thor added, “He should have.”

“Okay, that’s bullshit,” Tony retorted angrily.  “What the hell happened to bros before–”

“Don’t.  Don’t even think about it,” Natasha snapped, whirling to face him.  Her eyes were flashing.  If Stark knew what was good for him, he’d back off of this really fast.  Like _ludicrous speed_ fast.  “It didn’t matter if you helped Thor.  Your _captain_ told you to stay put!”

Now Tony’s eyes went bright.  “My _captain_?”  Steve flinched.  “Have _you_ always followed his orders?”

Clint knew the answer to that but kept his expression thankfully neutral.  Some of the first operations Steve and Natasha had conducted together as partners had been a tad bumpy.  Granted, a partnership dynamic was different than the sorts of behaviors necessary for a successful team, and it had taken the both of them some time to acclimate to that and to each other.  Clint remembered a similar situation when he had first partnered with Black Widow, as well.  She had been very accustomed to operating on her own, and, not surprisingly, she didn’t take well to change.  It also hadn’t helped that when Fury had sent Black Widow and Captain America out with the STRIKE Team, Steve had always been assigned a leadership capacity.  But that was irrelevant right now.  And Natasha knew it.  “This isn’t about me and my behavior,” she reminded hotly.  “I’m not out there.”

“No,” Tony returned sharply.  “You’re not.  And, forgive me, but I’m just going to say this because it _needs_ to be said.”  She set her arms across her chest and glared at him, like she was challenging him.  He lowered his voice, even taking a step closer.  “You need to get over freaking out about stuff like this because this arrangement you have?  It’s officially about to become a thing.”  His eyes darted conspicuously down the bulge of the twins.

That was most definitely the wrong thing to say.  Natasha’s full-out explosion seemed on the verge of going supernova.  Clint winced; this was like watching a train-wreck, down to the not being able to look away aspect.  “What’s that supposed to mean, Stark?”

Tony hesitated briefly, but he realized he was in this now, making his own bed just as he’d accused Rogers of doing earlier, and he obviously decided to lay in it.  “Come on, Natasha.  When they’re born, you’re going to be watching from the sidelines _a lot_.”  Natasha’s scowl collapsed slightly.  That struck a nerve.  Of course it did.  Clint knew it would, and he grimaced and wished Stark would just shut up and take the tirade that Natasha obviously needed to get out of her system.  Just take a figurative hit for the team, even if he was just saying the same things they were all thinking to some extent or another.  “You’re going to be back here with the babies.  You can’t fight, can’t call the shots.  So you need to get used to the fact that Cap’s going to be out there, potentially getting knocked around or beat up by whatever aliens or bad guys of the week we’re dealing with.  You can’t be there.”  Tony sighed, lowering his tone perhaps out of sympathy for Natasha’s paling face and unhappy eyes.  “He’s going to be taking risks, same as us, and that’s just the way it is.”

“Risks I can handle,” she returned, regaining some composure.  “Necessary risks.  Not risks because you have to show-boat.”

“That is not what happened.  I saw an opportunity to be useful and end the situation.  And I took it.”  Exasperated, Tony turned to Steve.  “And he didn’t even get hurt, for crying out loud!  It’s not serious.  Tell her, Cap.  It’s just a scratch!”

 _Oh, damn._   Every pair of eyes in the infirmary turned to Steve, Natasha’s first and foremost.  She was _staring_ at him, unblinking, face set in a tense expression of _warning_.  A moment of silence so thick that one could literally hear a pin drop followed.  The team was waiting, waiting for their captain to render a verdict and, inadvertently, choose a side in this raging argument.  Part of Clint just found this endlessly entertaining, watching Captain America squirm under his wife’s threatening glare.  Balancing logic against hormones…  He didn’t envy Steve that, and he felt just a tad guilty for brushing the other man aside earlier when he’d not so subtly asked for his help.  Just as he felt a tad guilty that Steve had been hurt at all on the mission, even if it hadn’t been his fault.  And that led to the other part of him, the part that was utterly horrified on Steve’s behalf.  Facing Natasha like this…  _Wow._   This was so much _worse_ than she’d been at the meeting earlier that day.  She’d been angry, sure, but it had a sly anger.  A smug, teasing anger, even.  This was well beyond that.  This was her _fear,_ bright and burning.

Steve realized that, of course.  And maybe he wouldn’t condemn or condone Tony’s choices during the battle (at least not right now when emotions were running rampant and overwhelming reason), but he would try to diffuse the situation.  “It really is okay,” he managed with a decent amount of confidence in his tone.  “I’m fine.  It hardly even broke the skin.”  He pulled away the sterile pad Bruce was holding over the lacerations.  The Kretal’s claw had done more than _hardly_ breaking his skin.  It had gouged him but good, leaving a bloody mess.  The last months of fighting together as a team had only reinforced Clint’s (and everyone else’s) foregone conclusion that Steve tended to downplay, dismiss, and otherwise ignore his injuries.  This was the first time Clint had gotten a good look at the wounds since the EMTs had patched Rogers up; there were three of them, and each was maybe six inches long, horizontal slashes across his abs below his sternum.  A little deeper and more ragged in some places than others, they looked exactly like what one would expect after getting clawed by one of those alien things.

But the slashes had long stopped bleeding.  And thanks to the serum, they’d heal without stitches.  So honestly?  Maybe it had been scary for a moment when Steve had gone down (Tony shrieking about it over the comm link hadn’t helped), but these were only flesh wounds, and it _wasn’t_ that big of a deal.  Natasha was (although Clint would _never_ say it normally, let alone when she was like this) completely overreacting.

_Try convincing her of that._

Steve was trying.  All those rumors about Captain America never knowing a losing battle when he was in one were utterly true.  “I’m fine,” he assured with an even stronger voice but a weaker smile.  She did nothing but glare, scowling as if to say _Really?_ Obviously she’d expected his support.  And, obviously, he wanted to give it but just couldn’t.  Clint knew why.  Tony had disobeyed an order, which was a big deal.  However, Steve’s injury hadn’t been a _direct_ consequence of that.  It could have happened during any other part of the battle.  It had been a mistake, a twist of fate, a moment of him moving too slow or his adversary catching a lucky break.  And when it came down to it, Natasha was upset about the fact he’d been wounded, not about the fact that Tony had ignored what he’d been told. 

 _Just try to make her understand that._   It was impossible, and they all knew it.  They could see it from Natasha’s narrowed eyes and heaving chest and flushed face.  But Steve kept trying.  “Stark made a mistake, but I’m alright and the mission was a success so…”  Natasha’s eye twitched.  _Holy hell._ Steve grimaced and lamely finished, “It’s okay?”

 _Bad move, Cap._ Even Clint thought that was bullshit.  Trying to keep the peace at the sacrifice of integrity seemed a very un-Captain-America-like thing to do.  Then again, Black Widow raving like a terrified lunatic was pretty out of character as well.  Natasha was actually shaking she was so mad.  She turned back to Stark.  Behind him, Sam visibly backpedaled.  And Clint grimaced.  “It’s not _okay_ ,” she declared sternly, her eyes darting sharply among all of the Avengers like she was challenging any of them to disagree with that.  “Just because no one got hurt doesn’t make it okay.  It’s not okay to ignore orders!  It’s not okay to be sloppy out there!”

“No, it’s not,” Sam agreed.  He gave Tony a not so subtle tip of his head, suggesting the inventor should just put this to rest.  “So let’s agree to not do it again.  Alright?”

Tony rolled his eyes, folding his arms over his chest like a petulant five year old.  Natasha resumed glowering at him, viciously accusatory.  “Obviously not worth it.  If I’d known you’d bite my damn head off for trying to get it done before it went to shit – fine, alright?  Fine.”  That was the closest thing to acquiescence and an apology as she was likely to get.

Steve slid off the examination table to go to her.  He seemed a tad more confident, like a sailor having somehow miraculously navigated a storm.  “Nat–”

“Don’t even, Rogers,” she snapped.  Steve went even whiter, as if that was possible.  All that confidence vanished.  He stopped dead in his tracks and swallowed nervously.  “Just don’t.”  Steve was barely able to nod, and then Natasha was storming away.  The door slammed loudly on her way out.  Even Thor winced.

The men stood still, silent and reeling from that whirlwind for what felt like a long time.  Then Thor gave a loud, hearty laugh and clasped Steve on the shoulder.  “There is nothing quite as rewarding as the adulation of the fairer sex after a job well done.  And something tells me you will be – what is it you Midgardians say?  Right.  You will be slumbering on the couch tonight, Steve.”

“Sleeping in the bed you make,” Sam added cheekily.  Thor lost all of his restraint and broke out laughing.  And Steve visibly deflated.  He sagged back against the examination table, closing his eyes and shaking his head.  Sam came over to him, grasping his shoulder and with nothing but sympathy.  “Ouch.  Is she always like that?”

Somehow Steve smiled a weary, overwhelmed smile.  “You have no idea.”

“Guys, go easy on her,” Bruce said with a disappointed tone in his voice.  “It’s tough, what she’s going through.  This is a major adjustment, mood swings notwithstanding.  It’s not her fault.  You don’t know what it’s like for her having to hang back here while you all go out there and fight.  It’s frustrating.”

Sam raised his hands in surrender.  “I am absolutely, one hundred percent not saying _anything._ ”

“Nor will I,” Thor added, but he still couldn’t wipe the grin from his face.

Bruce grabbed the pad from Steve and watched him sternly enough for him to sink back onto the examination table.  He pressed it back over the slashes securely.  “I’m taking blood samples,” he declared.  All of the sudden the physicist’s mood went rather sour, like seeing Natasha like that (and the team’s reaction to her) had irritated him.  “Just to be on the safe side.  I know that’s a concept you have trouble understanding.  You have to admit your track record with getting yourself hurt is not the best.”

Steve flushed with equal parts ire and embarrassment.  “Getting myself hurt?  You make it sound like it’s my fault!”

“Better than it being my fault,” Tony quipped.

“It’s not like I let that thing hit me!”

“Don’t go there,” Sam warned, and his smile slipped a little with pain and grief he wasn’t making much effort to conceal.  Clint had to agree, even if he wasn’t brave enough to say it.  Perhaps Bruce was being a little blunt, but it was true.  In the last six months, Steve had been hurt _a lot._   He’d almost died twice.  More than that even.  He hadn’t been to blame, of course.  The Red Guardian had beaten him.  Natasha had been forced to shoot him.  The STRIKE Team had tortured him and the Winter Soldier had shot him and Omega Red had battered him and…  The list went on.  Clint had never seen someone take so much abuse and keep going.  Never let it be said that Captain America didn’t have a penchant for throwing himself into the line of fire if he thought it would do some good.

But _let_ it be said that Captain America didn’t _think_ sometimes before throwing himself into the line of fire.  Not that Rogers was impulsive (not strictly), but the consequences of self-sacrifice, particularly to the people who cared about him, didn’t seem to compute in that tactical brain of his.  Crashing the _Valkyrie_ into the ice shelf of Greenland was a prime example.  One of many, in fact.

At least Steve wasn’t as blind to his own faults as some of the others present.  “I know what she’s going through.  You think I like it?”

“The rest of us aren’t too keen on it either, Spangles,” Tony said lowly.

Steve wasn’t amused.  He clenched his jaw and stared at Stark.  “Talk about not going there,” he said, narrowing his gaze.  His voice was tight with disapproval.  “Tony, she’s right.  Maybe for the wrong reasons, but she’s absolutely right.”

Tony’s face tightened with anger at being called out and shame at having done what he’d done.  “She’s freaking out over nothing, Cap, and you know it.”

Steve took a deep breath, lowering his chin slightly.  “Yeah, she is.  But be that as it may, you made a mistake out there.  You shouldn’t have gone in like that, not when I told you not to.  How can we function as a team if we don’t–”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony said dismissively, waving his hand as he turned and started out of the infirmary.  He knew he was in the wrong, and he was feeling guilty enough about it to let it go.  Mostly.  “I know.  Don’t get started.  Her hormonal psychosis I’ll let go.  You bitch at me and…  Ah, to hell with it.”  And then he was gone, too, proverbial tail tucked between his legs.

The infirmary was silent a moment, silent with that same aching sense of wanting to feel good about this but not being quite able to.  Wanting to brush it aside but not feeling entirely right about it.  Steve heaved a sigh.  He looked to Clint, Sam, and Thor, uncertain.  “Was this my fault?”

Sam donned a smile.  “Just let it go, man.  He screwed up.  But he’s right.  No harm, no foul.”

Bruce sighed.  “Lay down, Steve.  Let me take a better look at them.”

Steve hesitated, clearly not wanting to, clearly wanting to go after his wife and make this better.  He slumped in defeat after another moment, realizing he wasn’t going anywhere.  “Alright.”  He laid flat.  Bruce pulled the old bandages away again after donning a set of latex gloves.  Clint couldn’t help but wince at the sight of the wounds.  Steve was more bothered by having to stay there while Bruce examined him.  “This _is_ my fault,” he grumbled, draping a forearm over his eyes.  “Should have let her kill Tony.  Now she’s probably gonna kill me.”

Thor chuckled.  “Obviously you survived her wrath earlier today.”

“Yesterday,” Clint corrected.  God, he was tired.

“Regardless, you can persevere again, my friend.”

“Yeah, I survived.  Barely.  By the skin of my teeth,” Steve responded, grimacing and not from the pain as Bruce poked and prodded.  “Won’t be so lucky this time.”

“Hey, it’s alright,” Sam promised.  Clint didn’t know how he could always have such optimism.  “Right, Barton?”

That took him by surprise slightly.  He didn’t know if the other man was honestly seeking his opinion, trying to draw him into the conversation, or trying to show some solidarity and faith for Steve’s sake.  It was probably a mixture of all three.  Clint swallowed through a dry throat and shook himself free of the malaise that seemed to be constantly threatening.  “Yeah,” he said, surprised by the raspy quality of his voice.  “Yeah, it’ll be fine.”

Steve peeked out from under his arm.  There was concern splayed all over his features.  “You alright, Clint?”

Irritated at himself, Clint summoned some measure of nonchalance.  “’Course I am.  And Wilson’s right.  It’s fine.  You go back up there when this is done.  Give her a kiss.  Beg her forgiveness.”

“Again.”  Steve shifted his arm back over his eyes, apparently satisfied that Clint was fine.

“Again,” Clint agreed.  “She’ll get a good night’s sleep.  By tomorrow this time, that’ll be all healed up and she’ll have forgotten all about this.”

Steve dropped his arm, suddenly becoming stiff.  For a second, Clint feared maybe they’d all been wrong and there was something more serious going on.  But it wasn’t that.  He settled his gaze on Bruce with a frantic gleam to his eyes.  “Did you know she’s been having contractions?”

Bruce seemed oddly reluctant to respond at first, collecting some samples from the lacerations before gathering paraphernalia to bandage them.  It was almost as if he felt like he was violating Natasha’s trust by answering, even though it was a question from Natasha’s husband and the father of her children.  When had Banner gotten so protective of her?  “She didn’t say as much, but I could feel them, yes.”  Steve sank back down at that, pale and troubled again.  Bruce’s expression softened.  “It could mean anything.  Days.  Even weeks.  It’s hard to predict.”

Steve grunted.  His arm almost went back over his eyes, but then he looked to the others.  “Maybe…  Maybe I should sit things out until they’re born.”  Sam and Thor shared a concerned, unhappy glance.  “Look at what this did to her, and it was nothing.”

“Steve–” Sam started.

“Just until the babies are born,” Steve assured.

Again, the others seemed unsettled.  Even Steve did, and it was his idea.  Clint knew why.  It unnerved him just as much.  The Avengers were a team, a team in its infancy.  If this evening’s events had proven anything, it was that they still had problems to iron out.  And losing their leader now seemed like a huge step backward, not forward.  A serious disruption.  “You do what you feel you need to,” Thor said.  “We stand behind any decision you make.”

“But Stark’s right,” Sam added.  “He was being a complete dick, but he’s right.  Natasha’s…  Well, things are changing, and she’ll need to adapt.  With our help, of course.  But hiding from a problem doesn’t make it go away.”  Clint stiffened.  He didn’t mean to, and he didn’t know why.  And they all noticed.  Sam turned back to Steve.  “If staying out for a while is what you think is best, it’s fine.  For what it’s worth… I don’t think you need to take a step back.  And I don’t think she really wants you to, either.”

That gave Steve pause.  He grimaced again, this time because Bruce was taping up his wounds.  The doctor released a long breath.  “I’m not an expert on her moods.  Hardly even.”  It seemed like he was forcing himself to accept something.  “I have to agree with Sam, though.  She doesn’t want you on a bench.”

Steve sagged into the table, going pliant under Bruce’s capable hands.  He draped his arm over his eyes again.  Clint watched him, unable to deny his worry.  It was a new kind of thing, something he’d never imagined feeling.  This wasn’t worry for safety, worry for health, worry for the capacity of another man to have his back and get the job done.  This was concern for emotional well-being.  For the future of this thing they were trying to build which had already so influenced all of their existences.  Losing Captain America…  Well, it didn’t seem possible.  “You guys go get some sleep,” Steve finally said.  Again, it was an answer without answering.  “And get cleaned up.  You all look about as good as you smell.”

“You are one to talk, my friend,” Thor said lightly.

Steve smiled.  “No reason you need to hang around here for this.  I’m fine.  Right?”

Bruce tipped his head.  “Yeah, these look alright.  They’re already healing.”

Satisfied, Steve said, “See?”

“You sure?” Sam asked.  Steve nodded, throwing his arm out toward Sam in a friendly grab that turned into a friendly push.  “Alright, alright,” he conceded with a chuckle.  He and Thor headed to the door.  “You coming, Clint?”

“Yeah,” he said.  “Hey, Bruce, would it be okay if I popped in to see you tomorrow?”

Confused, Bruce cocked his head.  “Sure.  Everything okay?”

For some reason, that made Clint simply snap.  “Yes, for fuck’s sake.  Everything’s fine!  Stop asking!”

Everyone was staring at him.  _Everyone._   But before anyone could say anything, he walked away without another word.

* * *

If someone had told Sam Wilson six months ago that he’d be an Avenger, he would have thought that was completely crazy.  Off the wall, undeniably _insane._

Yet here he was, living in one of the most technologically advanced, most expensive buildings in the world with earth’s mightiest heroes as his roommates.  Six months ago he’d been lapped by Captain America during an early morning jog around Washington, DC, and today he could count Steve Rogers as one of his best friends.  Six months ago he’d been living a simple life, retired from the Air Force and working as a VA counselor, and now he was fighting HYDRA and stopping madmen and _flying_ and saving the world on a regular basis.  Six months ago, he’d been just another guy, and now he was sharing a beer with a god and planning raids with an inventor and being bedazzled by science with a genius.  He was watching the world’s best spy somehow turn into a mother.  He was enjoying targeting practice with the world’s best marksman.  He was an _Avenger_ , and, even more incredible than that mind-blowing fact, he just _fit right in._

Of course, it hadn’t all been excitement and acceptance.  From the moment Steve had shown up on his doorstep down in DC with Natasha practically unconscious and bleeding in his arms, his life had been a whirlwind of danger, fear, and near disasters.  He cared for Steve a great deal, Steve who’d come to fill the hole in his life where Riley’s friendship had once been strong and vibrant.  So seeing Steve get hurt as much as he had been by HYDRA had been damn difficult.  As bad as that had been, though, watching Steve and Natasha’s relationship fall apart after SHIELD’s collapse had been worse.  Watching Steve tear himself apart during their hunt for the Winter Soldier had been nigh unbearable.  They’d all almost died.  Sam had been nearly killed during the battle over the Potomac.  He’d nearly had his life drained away at the hands of Omega Red and had been exposed to the horrors of the insanity serum.  It had been awful.  For a while there, it had literally felt like one disaster after another, and seemingly every minute he’d been stuck wondering if there had been any way for the situation to get worse.

Shockingly, though, with the news of the twins and the end of the Red Room, it had gotten _better_.  So much better.  Now Steve and Natasha were married, and both of them seemed happy (well, deep down Sam knew Natasha was happy, despite her moodiness).  Sure, they had their moments.  They had their doubts and fears.  Sam could see it.  And who wouldn’t, given who they were and what had happened?  But from the moment Steve had told him that his girlfriend was what made him happy so many months ago when they’d been barely more than acquaintances, Sam had known that _this_ was the only outcome that made sense.  This was _right_.  Seeing the two of them together added another level of incredibleness to an already incredible experience.

Sam was definitely feeling the worst was behind them.  He was comfortable, felt needed and useful in a way he never had before, and he really liked that.  He missed his old life now and again, missed his folks (though he still talked to them regularly enough – he wasn’t sure they knew exactly what he was doing).  But generally?  Being an Avenger kicked serious ass.

Well, most of the time.  “Whoa!” Sam said, backpedaling and covering his eyes.  “Sorry!”

Tony pulled away from where he was making out with one Pepper Potts.  In Sam’s defense, they _were_ in the middle of the communal kitchen in the bright light of a new day.  Pepper flushed with embarrassment, looking away with a wince on her face and a hand over her mouth.  Tony’s eyes flashed, though not entirely angrily.  “You mind, bird brain?”

“Dude, it’s fine.  Your Tower.  I’ll, uh…”  He made to bolt.

“No, no,” Pepper said.  She recovered, smoothing her cream-colored business suit a bit.  She was such a sweet lady.  Beautiful, with stunning features, radiant auburn hair, and lush, red lips.  She was powerful.  Poised.  And she didn’t take crap.  It was obvious she’d been dealing with Stark’s issues for years and was an expert at it.  She handled everything, his company, his problems, his obsessions and flightiness and insecurities.  She did it all with such grace and aplomb that Sam frankly wondered where Tony would be without her.  “I should be going anyway.  The Board’s waiting.”

“You sure?” Tony said softly, moving closer to her again, slightly pinning her against the counter where two cups of coffee were steaming away, apparently forgotten.  “I’m much nicer than the Board.  And it is my Tower.  I’m second in command.  I’ll get rid of him.”

Pepper smiled sweetly but shook her head.  “No.  And since when are you second in command?”

“Since I pay for everything,” Tony said.  “And design everything.  And make everyone look cooler.”

Pepper quirked an eyebrow.  “Technically, I pay for everything since, of the two of us, I’m the one working for a living.  You avenge and play.”

“You make it sound like those things are mutually exclusive,” Tony said, mock affronted.

Pepper’s grin turned knowing.  She pecked Tony on the lips before slipping away.  “I’ll see you tonight.”  She walked out of the kitchen, her heels clacking loud on the marble.  As she left, she nearly ran into Steve and Thor coming in.  Her slight form surrounded by that much blond, muscled mass was almost comical.  “Oh, hi.  Sorry.”

“No, it is our mistake to block the way of the lady of manor,” Thor said loudly, and both of them chivalrously stepped aside to allow her to pass.

Pepper grimaced at the term.  “Do me a favor and never call me that again,” she said, patting Thor on one of his muscled biceps.  She glanced back at Tony as if to say _can you believe this?_ at the firmness, leaving Stark red with annoyance, before turning to Steve.  “How’s Natasha?  I meant to ask yesterday, but with, well, needing to save the world again…”

“We hardly saved the world,” Steve corrected, blushing like the gentleman he was.  “And she’s fine.  Catching up on some sleep.  Thanks for asking, ma’am.”

“Don’t ever call me that again, either.”

“Bad habit,” Steve admitted.

Pepper nodded.  “She’s getting close now.  When are they due?”

“April 3rd.”

“Hey, they could be born on April Fool’s Day,” Tony threw out wisely from the kitchen, like no one had noticed that possibility yet.  “What a joke that would be.”

Steve gave Tony a long-suffering look.  Pepper laughed lightly.  “I’m looking forward to meeting them,” she said.  “If there’s anything you or Natasha need, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thanks.”

“You boys stay out of trouble,” she said before she continued down the hallway toward the elevators.

Tony sighed, picking up his coffee cup and downing about half of it.  “Too late for you, Wilson,” he said accusingly.  “You are already in so, _so_ much trouble.”

“You have more bedrooms in this place than a hotel,” Sam grumbled, “and you have to get lucky in the kitchen.”

“Kinkier, don’t you think?” Tony deadpanned.  “And, hey, look who’s survived another night married to the world’s scariest pregnant woman!”  Steve frowned, heading to the coffee maker (the most expensive, complicated coffee maker in the history of coffee makers, no doubt).  He reached into the cabinets to get a mug for himself and one for Thor.  “Tell me, Cap, just how many screw-ups does it take before Black Widow kills and devours her mate?”

“I see you’re as completely blind to _your_ mistakes this morning as you were last night,” Steve said smartly.  “You want coffee, Sam?”

Tony’s expression tightened in anger, and for a moment, Sam feared the morning would dissolve into another round of bickering.  He knew Steve and Tony were friends, but they certainly didn’t go out of their way to show it.  Tony picked on Steve almost relentlessly (well, he picked on everyone relentlessly, to be fair), and Steve (who was normally about the most difficult person to rile that Sam knew) reacted every time.  It was funny, but it could be draining, too.  Thankfully, though, Tony was still too bothered (or ashamed) of what had happened to push it.  “No, I’m not _completely_ blind.  I actually stayed awake last night thinking about it a great deal.”

Steve couldn’t hide his surprise.  “Really?”

Tony folded his arms across his Pink Floyd shirt.  “Well, yeah.  I’m not a complete asshole.  And it occurred to me that the problem is your shield.”  So much for this being genuine.  Steve’s irritated expression matched the wave of annoyance prickling through Sam.  “No, hear me out.  That queen bee thing would’ve never gotten to you if you’d had your shield.”

“In the captain’s defense, that rarely happens,” Thor said.

“Yeah, but this isn’t the first time you’ve lost it or thrown it somewhere and not had it when you needed it.”  That was true enough.  Steve had lost his shield for more than a month after the battle with the Insight helicarriers.  It had gone missing during his escape from the crashing airship, and only later they’d learned that the Winter Soldier had somehow found it in the wreckage.  And Stark was right; there’d been a handful of times since when the shield hadn’t been where it needed to be, this occasion one of them.  “So I’m thinking I can devise an electromagnetic retrieval system and work it into the gloves of your suit.  I can probably get them to work at a pretty decent range and maybe even with enough oomph behind them to do some damage against whatever’s in the shield’s way as it comes back to you.  What do you think?  I mean, it’s about time I upgrade my dad’s archaic design.”

Sam winced and looked at Steve.  The soldier’s reaction here and now would dictate whether or not last night’s argument continued into today.  Honestly, Sam hoped not.  If Thor’s reticent expression was any indication, he felt the same.  What Tony was offering to do, upgrading and designing and inventing…  That was his way of saying sorry.  Of course, it was apologizing without any admittance of culpability for that stupid ass stunt he’d pulled, but it was apologizing nonetheless.  Sam ardently hoped Steve would see that.

Steve did.  “Alright.”

Tony beamed, partly from excitement but mostly from relief.  “Sweet.”

Steve rolled his eyes a little as he finished pouring the coffee.  He handed Thor a mug and then Sam (even though Sam had never answered).  He took his last.  “Anybody seen Barton this morning?”

“Nay,” Thor responded, taking a drink of his coffee after he’d loaded it with copious amounts of sugar and some expensive creamer that Pepper liked.  “Though I confess I have not looked as of yet.”

Steve wasn’t pleased with that.  “Something’s bothering him.”

“What led you to that conclusion?” Tony asked.  “The fact that he hardly strung a sentence together last night?  Or the way he’s been wearing dark and brooding like it’s going out of style?  Or how he _never_ smiles anymore?”  He shook his head.  “Come to think of it, I’ve never even seen him smile.  He _does_ smile, doesn’t he?”

Truth be told, Sam hadn’t really, either.  But the why of Clint’s demeanor wasn’t all that hard to tease apart.  “He died,” he reminded.  “Lost his hearing.  Lost his girlfriend.”  Carter or Romanoff.  He didn’t dare specify at the sharp, guilty look in Steve’s eyes.  “That’s hard to deal with.  Probably a minor miracle he’s as with stuff as he is.” Sam knew more about PTSD than the average person, and he was damn sure every Avenger, even Thor, had a rip-snorting case of it.  Right now Barton was down deep.  “Getting him help might be a good idea.”  Steve looked even more displeased, like that was somehow his fault.  Another thing he’d quickly learned about Steve was he was all too willing to take responsibility for pretty much everything.  And the blame.

Steve never got the chance to say anything, though, because Hill strolled into the kitchen.  The look on her face of taut unhappiness was enough to kill their conversation.  “I don’t suppose any of you thought to check the news this morning,” she said.

“Don’t you just love it when she comes in, all sugar and sweet sunshine?” Tony joked.

Hill clenched her jaw, unamused.  “JARVIS?”

The AI wasted no time in turning on the television on the other side of the kitchen.  A female news anchor appeared.  Alongside her there was footage from London, images that depicted a gray day with emergency crews struggling to deal with the mess left behind from the battle.  “–with this latest occurrence of the Avengers fighting what could only be described as giant insects outside of London.  No civilian casualties were reported this time, unlike the last instance of global unrest involving the Avengers in New York City four months ago where more than fifty people were killed.  However, despite the lack of casualties and a relatively low impact upon local property, there is an increased call among many political figures, both in the US and abroad, for there to be regulation of the Avengers’ activity.”

The coverage switched to a woman they well recognized.  Although most of the nation had whole-heartedly gotten behind the Avengers after they’d fought HYDRA and Omega Red in Manhattan, Senator Michelle Berman from New York hadn’t been so supportive.  She’d been loudly calling for answers to explain how, yet again, the Avengers had seemingly swooped in at the opportune moment to save the nation from a “random” crisis.  First the Chitauri.  Then Project: Insight.  Then Omega Red.  Not to mention the incident at Greenwich and the ordeal with the Mandarin.  Without SHIELD to protect the team, they’d all ignored the voices of dissension, Berman’s and others’, and those voices had been so few and far in between that it hadn’t mattered.  Now…  “The Avengers seem to believe that we as a nation, as a world, have asked them to fight on our behalf.  That’s not the case.  Now, I’m not implying we’re not grateful for the sacrifices they have made.  They have risked their lives, but I have to ask again: are they themselves creating the very situations that lead to these crises?  Don’t we as a society deserve answers?  Captain America and Iron Man are leading the most powerful military organization in existence, and they’re doing it with little to no oversight.  What’s to prevent another situation like the disaster we faced last summer with SHIELD?  If HYDRA has infiltrated our world as much as the Avengers want us to believe, then we need _greater_ transparency.  Greater accountability.  Maybe earth needs the Avengers, but the problem is we have no way to be certain if that’s true, or, if it’s true, we have no control over how we are protected.”

Back in the newsroom, the anchor continued her report.  “Senator Berman is not the only high-ranking official to question the role of the Avengers in maintaining world security.  President Ellis had this to say at a White House press conference earlier this morning.”

Ellis’ older, banal face appeared at a White House podium, flanked by flags and the seal of the President of the United States.  “The Avengers have always held the safety of our world as their highest goal, and I have complete faith in their good intentions driving them.  However, in light of SHIELD’s collapse and recent revelations that certain high-level members of Congress and the FBI were in fact loyal to HYDRA, I believe some disclosure may not be a bad idea.”

“Later in his press conference, the President answered calls from British Prime Minister David Wallace and other members of the EU that the topic of the Avengers be discussed at next Monday’s Fourth Global Summit on International Security, or GSIS4, in Geneva, Switzerland.  It is expected that the world leaders attending the highly-televised Summit, including President Ellis himself, will begin early talks considering a multilateral and multinational approach to the Avengers and the threats they fight as early as Tuesday morning,” the anchorwoman went on.

Then the coverage switched to another interview, this one with a member of the British cabinet.  “This needs to be addressed in a formal, aggressive manner,” the man said.  He looked like an old codger.  “The Avengers cannot police the world and expect that no one will object.  Who decides which fights should be fought?  Which enemies need to be stopped?  Who decides _who_ the enemies are in the first place?  They came into our sovereign nation last night and ran an unauthorized military operation.  We can’t stand for that sort of vigilantism.”

The tension in the room was stiff and unyielding.  “Vigilantism,” Thor repeated in surprise and disgust.

“Yeah, welcome to Midgardian political bullshit,” Tony retorted sharply.  All of the good cheer had vanished.  He set his cup down sharply.  “Just… ugh.”

“In other news, a series of seemingly random break-ins at police departments and vital records offices on Long Island have local authorities stumped as to–”

“JARVIS, shut it off.”  The television went dark, but the voices from the newscast echoed in the quiet that followed.  Echoed and hit them all hard.

Sam felt a knot tie up his stomach.  For some reason, he felt like he was back at school, and the teacher had caught him misbehaving with his buddies.  “I thought Ellis was with us,” he said, looking to the others for their opinions.  “He’s _never_ been anything but with us.  When SHIELD went down, he practically came out and said he trusted Cap’s judgment more than anyone’s when it came to the defense of this country.  Hell, Stark, you and Colonel Rhodes saved his life.”

“There’s an election year coming,” Tony replied glumly.  “If he thinks there’s pressure to rein us in, he’ll rein us in.”

“As if we are animals to be reined,” Thor muttered disdainfully.

Steve sighed, folding his arms over his chest.  His eyes were glazed, and it was difficult to see what he was thinking.  If he considered this a betrayal or a serious problem.  Everyone was watching him, again trying to gauge what to feel.  Then Steve sighed.  “Maria, what do you have on Strucker?”

“That’s it?  That’s all you’re going to say,” Tony said incredulously.  “Cap, they’re calling us out!”

“No, they’re discussing the impact the Avengers have on the world, which they are allowed to do,” Steve corrected.  Tony skewered him with an angry look (one Sam kind of agreed with, to be honest).  “Look, nothing seems guiltier than showing up at a meeting that we haven’t been invited to screaming that we’re innocent.  Let’s just wait and see what happens.”

Tony wasn’t satisfied.  It was with good reason.  Sam loved his country and loved the people in it, but he was starting to trust the government less and less.  After seeing SHIELD turn into their worst nightmare, after hearing about what Congress had done to Natasha and Clint in the aftermath, and after experiencing firsthand how deep HYDRA’s corruption went, it was difficult to trust that any government official had the world’s best interests at heart (let alone the Avengers’).  It was perhaps a bit paranoid, but it was hard to shake.  Everything had felt _better_ , knowing Ellis had had their backs, knowing the President was protecting them.  The President had faith in them.  Ellis was a popular leader among the people, and his trust in the Avengers had only reinforced public opinion.  Now…  “Worry not, Tony,” Thor advised.  “Politicians on Asgard are much the same as they are here.  They love the sounds of their own voices, so they pontificate.  But rarely do their pontifications result in actual policies.”

That was true enough.  Steve came closer to Tony and set a comforting hand on his shoulder.  “I know you’ve been burned by this sort of thing before.  Trust me, I know.”  He smiled.  “But let’s not fly off the handle and make this worse, alright?  Thor’s right.”  He shared a firm look with the Asgardian, who nodded back.  “Let’s just go about our business.  HYDRA’s out there, and we have a scepter to find.”

Tony appeared to be wrestling with accepting that.  But he did, pushing Steve away lightly and with a quirk of a smile.  “No press conference then?  I’m good at telling people where to stick it.”

“No press conference.”

“You know, up their asses.  In case you were confused.  I can draw a map.”

“I know.  No press conference.”

“Bummer.”

Steve grinned and then turned back to Maria.  “Strucker?”

Hill seemed relieved at Steve’s decision to let this slide for now.  That made sense.  Any media fall-out would be her responsibility, and she already had her hands full.  She got herself a cup of coffee.  “There’s not much to be had.  Whoever this new Strucker is, HYDRA’s gone to some lengths to keep information on him contained.  You can bet they used SHIELD to do it.”

“So we have nothing on which to proceed?  No hint of who this man is or where he might have taken the scepter?” Thor asked.

She cocked her head a little.  “Not in digital form.”  Thor was perplexed at that.  She blew on her coffee a little.  “SHIELD has archives from SSR at the Triskelion.  If this new Strucker is indeed related to the old one, I bet we can find some information in there.”

Steve regarded her doubtfully.  “You can get in?”  Everything at the Triskelion had been under strict lockdown at the hands of the US government since the battle over the Potomac.  The site was sealed.

Maria smiled slyly.  “I still have a few strings I think I can pull.”

“Get everything,” Steve ordered.  “ _Everything._ ”

“I was planning on it, Captain.”

Sam sort of faded from the conversation as it turned back to chasing down leads concerning HYDRA and the logistics of the clean-up from last night’s battle.  He turned back to the darkened television screen.  Something about this situation didn’t sit well with him, like a thorn pricking into his brain, poking into a place he couldn’t reach.  Maybe it was nothing.  Like Thor said, maybe it was a bunch of pompous bastards who loved listening to themselves talk.  But he had this sinking suspicion that nothing good would come of this.  He looked back to Steve as he chatted amiably with Tony and Thor, and before he could stop himself he wondered if maybe the worst wasn’t behind them, after all.   

* * *

Natasha couldn’t sleep.  This was another facet of being pregnant she’d gladly do without.  She’d be tired, exhausted even, but the minute her head hit the pillow it was like her brain went into overdrive.  She couldn’t stop thinking.  Excitedly.  Anxiously.  Happily and fearfully and everything in between.  It didn’t help that Steve didn’t seem to be suffering from any sort of insomnia (or even interested in sharing hers with her).  Even earlier than normal he’d fallen asleep, splayed out beside her on his stomach, buried under the duvet and sheets and breathing deeply and evenly.  She watched him enviously.  It would be nice just for once if their sleepless nights coincided so she wouldn’t have to sit up alone with her worries.  _Worries._   There’d been a time not too long ago when Black Widow hadn’t worried.  Hadn’t felt.  Hadn’t loved.  Now she loved more than she thought possible.  She felt far too much to be comfortable.  And she _worried._   She worried a great deal.

Sighing in annoyance, she glanced irately at the clock and gave up any pretense of trying to sleep.  She levered herself upright with her elbows, grimacing as things stretched and shifted uncomfortably.  This was one of the rare moments that both the twins seemed to be sleeping (or at least quiet), and _she_ couldn’t sleep.  The irony was aggravating, to say the least.  But she hated laying there, her thoughts racing around like a swarm of flies, buzzing and biting and itching.  She reached over and resettled the duvet over Steve, letting her hand linger on the warm, smooth flesh of his bare back.  Their bedroom was cool; she was hot all the time now, so some nights they slept with the temperature lower (which didn’t entirely sit well with Steve, but of course he’d just agreed and wrapped himself up tighter in their bedding).  He could have worn a shirt, but she wasn’t complaining.  Then she stood, found her robe and slippers, and shuffled out of their suite.  “Ms. Romanoff,” JARVIS quietly said once she reached the corridor, “is anything the matter?”

Of course JARVIS would be monitoring her for signs of labor, even if Bruce and Steve hadn’t asked him to.  Getting up at two in the morning was probably a red flag.  “Just can’t sleep, JARVIS,” she responded, somehow not as irritated as she normally might have been that someone was babysitting her.

“If I might be so bold, I have the recipe for a hot milk toddy that Mr. Stark often drank in his youth when he could not sleep.  It is delicious, simple to prepare, and can be made without alcohol.”

Natasha was a tad surprised at that, her brow furrowing as she headed to the elevator.  “Stark used to drink hot milk before bed?”

“Quite often in fact,” JARVIS responded as he opened the doors for her.  “My predecessor claimed it was a recipe from his wife.”

“Your predecessor?”

“Edwin Jarvis, Howard Stark’s butler.  He cared for Mr. Stark quite a bit in his youth,” JARVIS replied.  Natasha couldn’t quite get her brain around this.  Tony had told her once that JARVIS stood for “Just A Rather Very Intelligent System”.  Obviously it stood for a lot more than that.  “Mr. Stark does, on occasion, express his sentimental side.”

She couldn’t help but smile at that.  “Surprised he even has one,” she said, even though she knew she shouldn’t be.  Tony had been the one to arrange for their wedding and their honeymoon.  However, her fond thoughts of that faded rather quickly when her mind inevitably drifted to the fact that Stark’s stupid bullshit show-boating had nearly gotten her husband killed.  And his comments afterward that had been completely wrong and totally out of line.  “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass on the drink.  Is anyone awake?”

“Mr. Stark is.  He has barricaded himself in his workshop, though, and if the volume of his rock music and his litany of profanity are any indication, I would not recommend disturbing him.  Mr. Barton is up, as well.”

 _Clint._   “Where is he?”

“On the training range.  Shall I take you there?”

“Yes.  Please.”  The elevator started to descend, and Natasha couldn’t help but felt guilty.  She hadn’t much seen Clint these last couple of weeks or so, ever since Sharon had returned to DC.  He’d been making himself scarce, and she knew it.  And that had been when the first of the contractions had started, which had (obviously) been consuming.  Of course, they’d run into each other.  Shared some pleasantries, “hi”’s and “how are you”’s that were perfunctory and not meaningful.  She felt decidedly lousy for spending so little time with him, for being so involved with her own issues that she’d forgotten all about his.  She was his friend, his best and closest friend, and he deserved better.

It didn’t take long for the elevator to deposit her on the lower levels of the Tower.  She hadn’t been down here much since Tony had renovated the area to accommodate the vast training needs of the team.  It was too harsh a reminder of what she _couldn’t_ do now.  Where she didn’t belong.  JARVIS helped her find her way through numerous sparring rooms, weight rooms packed to the brim for Steve and Thor, a massive gym complete with an obstacle course, a pool and sauna, and first aid stations.  Everything was dark and vacant this time of night.  One place had its lights on.  She stood at the door of the indoor targeting range and watched Clint sight down his bow.  He stood perfectly still, every hard line of his body taut, every limb precisely placed.  He was hardly breathing, a statue in fact, so completely focused on his target.  She’d seen him fight more than anyone on the team, and it still marveled her how he could be so motionless.

Then he loosed the arrow.  It hit its mark dead on, dozens and dozens of feet away.  For being so completely static a second before, he was moving fast now, nocking arrow after arrow and running.  Hitting _every_ target dead on.  A blink and a heartbeat later, more than a dozen arrows were on the other end of the room, piercing each bulls-eye, and he wasn’t even winded.

Natasha stepped inside the range as he shouldered his bow and went to collect his shots.  “Clint?” she called.  He didn’t stop.  She glanced to the gym bag along the wall and saw two little buds atop it (and a gun inside – normally that wouldn’t have bothered her, but for some reason it did now).  “Clint!”  It was probably no use; without his hearing aids, he probably couldn’t hear her.  Walking out onto a shooting range with a shooter unable to detect her was dangerous.  She spotted the light switch near the door and flipped it off and on to get his attention.

Clint turned.  He looked… pale.  And haggard.  And not himself.  It might have been subtle to someone else, but she saw it immediately.  He hadn’t shaved that day.  His eyes were a tad hollow in a way that spoke of not getting enough sleep.  His appearance took her back, back to after his mind had been stolen, back to that hallway outside Fury’s office in the Triskelion when she’d learned he was being benched due to the trauma he’d experienced as a victim of Loki’s machinations.  _The scepter._   He managed a smile for her now, though.  A weak, paltry thing.  He walked over to the bag and grabbed his hearing aids.  He slipped them back in.  “Can’t sleep?”

Natasha forced herself to ignore her guilt and shame that, once again, Clint had apparently been suffering and _she hadn’t noticed._   “No.”

“Me neither.  Obviously.”   It was awkwardly quiet for a moment.  She didn’t know what to say to him.  He glanced at her stomach.  “So you’re having contractions?”  How the hell did he know that?  Did everyone know that?  Had Steve told them?  Clint smiled disarmingly, likely noticing the flash of anger in her eyes.  He could read her mind sometimes.  “Hey, go easy on him.  He’s trying.”  What was the sense in getting angry about it anyway?  Steve was right.  In a matter of days, weeks if she was lucky, the twins were going to be born, and _everyone_ (well, everyone in the Tower) would know it.  So she nodded, setting her hands to the swell of her stomach.  Clint gathered up his stuff, zipping up his bag and slinging it over his shoulder.  “Are you ready?”

Back to this again.  She knew she should be.  And there was the urge to rehash everything over which she’d gotten upset before.  How could she be ready for this?  How could she be a mother to Captain America’s children?  But there was no sense in it.  Getting upset did nothing but hurt, and he didn’t need her problems on top of his own.  “Yeah.  I think so.  Have to be, right?”

Clint smiled weakly, but he didn’t say anything to that.  He seemed so lost.  A shadow of the man he’d been.  In some ways, this was worse than it had been after Loki.  After Loki, he’d been angry, struggling to recover, accepting of his situation but not of defeat.  SHIELD might have benched him and then assigned him a lesser role when they’d let him back out, but he’d never stopped fighting.  This…  He was complacent.  It made her heart ache.  “How are you?” she asked, trying to seem less concerned than she was.

He stiffened.  She didn’t know if it was the question or the answer that was bothering him.  Or both.  “I’m alright,” he softly declared.  “Saw Banner today.  Those damn bug things and their sonar pulses screwed up the hearing aids.  Everything was back feeding during the battle.”

“That why you had them off?” she asked, a bit afraid of the answer.

“What?  Oh.  No, he tweaked it and it’s better now.”  He gave a tip of his head and something of a wry smile.  “Shockingly, sometimes the silence is nice.”  There was something very haunted about the way he was saying that.  “Gives you a lot of time to think.  You know, since you can’t fucking hear anything else too good.  So I was shooting and thinking and grinding my own gears.  It’s so damn pleasant, to be a liability out in battle.  Really gets you nice and good right in the self-esteem.”  His sarcasm was ugly.  “No one noticed though, so it’s all good.  Otherwise Cap would’ve had my ass riding a bench.”

Natasha didn’t know how to feel about that.  “It’s not so bad,” she offered.

“Yeah, well, your… _disability_ isn’t permanent,” he returned darkly.

“Clint–”

He seemed to shake himself free of that.  “But it’s better now,” he said again, like he was trying to convince himself, “so it’s all good.”

“Are you _okay_?”

He nodded.  “I’m fine, Nat.  Going through a rough patch right now is all.”

That seemed something of an understatement.  But it wasn’t her place to judge him or demand he get help.  It would be nothing but hypocritical.  It had taken her so long and so much trauma to get to the point where she felt comfortable being Steve’s strength and support when he needed it.  Helping Clint with his problems seemed just about as daunting.  “We’ve all had our dark moments the last few months,” she offered.  It sounded pathetic to her ears.  Making light of his issues by reminding him they’d all had their fair share (maybe more than their fair share).  “I… I got through mine.  Steve got through his.”

“You guys had each other,” Clint reminded her quietly.

Hurt cut through Natasha’s heart, so very sharp.  “You still have me, Clint.”

He looked at her with a smile she could only call self-deprecating.  “No, I don’t.  I lost you the minute Fury reassigned you to work with Rogers.”  She didn’t want to admit that was true, but it was.  And Clint had told her time and time again that he was okay with it.  That he loved her but wasn’t _in love_ with her.  That he was happy she’d found someone to take care of her like Steve was and always would.

But obviously Clint wanted _that_.  She didn’t know much of his past, despite all the time they’d been partners and friends.  Still, she knew enough to see he’d been alone for a long time, and he’d lived a dark and difficult life before coming to SHIELD (and since, when she was honest with herself).  So had she, and having Steve heal her heart had changed everything.  Clint wanted that, the security of knowing someone else was _there._   The strength and comfort that comes from sharing pain with someone else during times like these.  Love, like the love she had with Steve.  Love the way Clint had described it when she’d needed to be reminded the most.  _“_ _It’s understanding and forgiveness and selflessness. It’s openness. It’s believing in someone else no matter what.”_

She wanted that for him, too.  But he was right.  She couldn’t give it to him.

“Call Carter back,” she offered.  It just burst out, a desperate, ignorant suggestion to ease his pain.  “Call her back and–”

“No.  She’s…  She’s nice.”  Clint shook his head.  “But it wasn’t going to work.”  What he didn’t say was obvious.  _I need more than nice._

Natasha floundered a little.  She wanted to help him, but she didn’t know how.  She didn’t know if she could.  He’d suffered a lot over the last couple of years.  Loki.  Losing her and losing his place and prestige in SHIELD.  Being forced to betray them.  Being forced to shoot Steve.  _Dying_ only to be brought back only _not_ to come back completely.  He’d lost his hearing.  Maybe he’d lost more than that.  If she thought she’d only recently been too engrossed in her own plights to notice his, she was sadly mistaken.

But Clint never let her dwell on his troubles.  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, coming closer to her.  “Don’t worry about me.  I’m alright.  Just… feeling sorry for myself.  It was bound to happen.  It’s all sinking in, I guess.”

“You’re allowed to,” she said.  “You deserve to.”

“Yeah, well, pisses me off.  And you have enough on your plate.”  She didn’t want him to throw himself aside yet again for her.  He did it.  Steve did it.  They’d both _died_ for her.  She would never feel worthy of it.  Still, before she could think of something to say, he was reaching a tentative hand toward her.  “Can I?”  She wasn’t sure what he was asking exactly, but she nodded because she trusted him completely.  He smiled, a real, heartfelt smile, and set his hand to her stomach.  “Wow.  That’s hard.”

“Yeah,” she commented. 

“Which one is Clinton, Jr.?” he quipped.  He didn’t let his hand linger long.  “No, don’t do that.  I hate my name.”  She laughed a little.  He hesitantly cupped her face.  “How the hell did you and I get here?”  The words were soft and breathless, not regretful in the least but certainly shocked.  “It’s alright, isn’t it?”  Again, it was unspoken.  _Is this where we belong?_

“Yes,” she said, taking his hand from her cheek and squeezing it gently.

He kissed her firmly on the forehead.  “You’re going to be a great mom, Nat.”  He had doubts, but not about that.  His voice was firm, true.  Confident.  He stayed a moment more, searching her eyes and trying to be strong.  Then he left.

Natasha stood there in the training range, alone and feeling an odd mixture of relieved and unsettled.  Clint deserved so much more than he’d gotten.  She wished there was a way to give him what he deserved.

There was, she realized.  At least a little piece of it.

She was back up and in her suite with Steve right after that.  The bedroom was the way she’d left it, dark and cool, and Steve hadn’t moved so much as an inch.  She took off her robe and draped it over the back of the chair in the sitting area across from the bed, waddling back to the bed.  It took some effort and a wince or two to get herself back down.  She scooted (that was laughable) over to her husband.  “Steve?”  He didn’t answer.  She pulled the duvet down a bit and shook his shoulder.  “Steve?  Are you awake?”

“No,” came a grumbled response from the pillows.

“Then wake up.  Come on.”

She tugged some more and he eventually abided by her.  Blue eyes, bleary with sleep and unusually hazy, blinked at her.  “What?  Is it time?”

It took her a second to realize what he was asking.  She dropped her hand to her stomach.  “No, no.  Not that.”

“Then it can wait,” he said on a long breath, pulling away and rolling prone again.  “’M tired.”

Two back to back battles and the efforts of running the Avengers (and all the emotional upheaval) had obviously done a number on him because he usually wasn’t this lethargic and hard to rouse.  She wasn’t about to be dissuaded, though.  “Let’s do it,” she softly declared to his shadowy form.

He groaned.  “Do what?”

“Buy a house.”

That got his attention.  He lifted his head from the pillows, half his hair sticking up.  He blinked again like he couldn’t focus.  Or comprehend that.  “Really?”

She smiled faintly, still not entirely sure, and nodded.  The joy and relief showing in his hazy eyes was more than enough evidence that this was right.  That she was doing the right thing.  His lips pulled into a sleepy grin, and he clumsily hauled himself closer to her.  He fumbled in the dark a moment before capturing her lips.  Lord, he was warm.  Warmer than normal, even.  She never understood how someone who generated so much heat could ever be cold.  He kissed her gently.  “Thank you,” he murmured into her lips.

She wove her fingers through the silky strands of his hair, drawing him closer and kissing him more thoroughly.  When they stopped, she gently pushed him onto his back and snuggled up to his side.  It wasn’t easy with her belly, but they managed.  She draped an arm over his midsection, listening to his heartbeat.  “And I want Clint to be their godfather.”  He didn’t answer right away.  She wondered if he’d fallen asleep.  She lifted her head from his shoulder and propped herself on her elbow to look at his face.  “Steve?”

“Sure,” he murmured.

“Are you listening?”

“Yeah.  Clint.  Godfather.  It’s great,” he slurred.  “Great idea.  Clint’s a great guy.”  He licked his lips, almost down all the way again.  “First thing in the mornin’.”

She smiled to herself.  “Go to sleep, Rogers.”  She didn’t need to tell him twice.  His breathing immediately evened out again.  She drew patterns on his stomach, over the dips and planes of well-defined muscles, and she tiredly did that for quite a while before she even realized that the slashes from the battle last night were almost completely gone.  Those hideous wounds had healed at an astounding rate that day, and new skin and muscle had grown back.  The claw marks were nothing more than faint red splotches, long and wide but hardly noticeable, across his belly.  She’d forgotten all about them.  Thank God for the serum.  Flesh wounds could be erased like they’d never existed at all.

She traced her fingers down to his side, where Omega Red had stabbed him.  That had healed too, of course, but it had scarred.  A slight, silvery ridge that didn’t feel as smooth or flawless as the skin around it.  And on his shoulder there was another mark like this.  Two, actually.  Front and back, from where Omega Red’s tentacle had passed through him.  Slowly but surely, these scars were fading, but it was taking a long time.  The last remnants of the nightmare before now.

She didn’t like looking at them or remembering it, frankly.  It always made her uneasy, a reminder that even the serum had its limits.

One of the twins twisted inside her, and the other moved in response.  They settled back down right away.  _“Vse horosho,”_ she whispered.  _It’s alright._ And it was.  Everything was alright.  She closed her eyes and let her faith in that and the heat and love around her finally soothe her to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Vse horosho._ – It's alright.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Extra special thanks to Nerdman3000 for all the help with the research in this one! Well, enjoy some fluff. You can probably see where this is headed, so there won't be much more…

Tony was a firm believer in the power of science.  In physics and mathematics.  In engineering.  In the cold, hard, binary truths of logic.  No matter what came and went, what waxed and waned, what went awry, science was infallible.  Immutable, in a sense, because the fundamental laws beneath it _didn’t change._   The world could be a wild and unpredictable place, but when he was in his lab or workshop, buried in the thick of coding and designing and inventing, he knew _exactly_ where everything was.  Where it was supposed to be.  Where _he_ was supposed to be.   Why.  There were absolutes in life, and even if he thrived in chaos, the fact that those absolutes were, well, _absolute_ was a comfort to him.

And science, in his mind, could fix anything.  It could cure diseases, fix problems, educate and elucidate.  It could make the world a better place.  Science was a tool, neither good nor evil in and of itself.  Knowing could never be a bad thing.  Building could never be evil.  It was what man did with what he knew and what he built that made him right or wrong.  There was nothing that would ever make Tony think there were questions not worth answering, truths not worth understanding, discoveries not worth making.  Inventions too dangerous for mankind.  There was no such thing as an invention that was too dangerous.  Not in his book.  He used science to make money, to better his life, to save the world.  He used science to solve problems, to repair things that were broken, to protect people.  Maybe that wasn’t what he’d always done, but it was what he did now.  And he enjoyed it profusely.  There were three things in this world that he loved beyond any doubt: Pepper, Iron Man, and tinkering.

Granted, though, there was a line sometimes.  Sometimes.  And sometimes (more often than not), he crossed it.  He wasn’t as blind to his faults as everyone thought.  He knew he was impulsive, arrogant (a _tad_ arrogant), overly curious, and sometimes consumed by his own obsessions and ambitions. He pushed too hard, generally sucked at relationships, outrageously failed at shutting his brain down for sleep (though why bother when he did his best work insomnia-drunk), and tended to self-destruct.  If it wasn’t for Pepper, he honestly didn’t know where he would be.  He definitely wouldn’t be Iron Man.  And he wouldn’t be an Avenger.  He wouldn’t be _here_ , designing for the team like he was.  Captain America’s new gloves.  Falcon’s suit.  Finding new ways to make Hawkeye’s arrows awesome was becoming his new favorite distraction.

And the Iron Legion.  Like the quinjet, that was about ready for beta-testing, too.  He was smoothing over the final wrinkles in the newest sets of Legionnaires this afternoon.  JARVIS was working through the bug list with him.  There were hundreds and he was only halfway done.  The protocols JARVIS had employed during the Mandarin incident had been decent enough, but the new legion needed another layer on top of it, a reorientation to follow one unwavering goal: protect civilians.  That, and assist the Avengers.  Tony was pretty sure he could convince Rogers of the merits of this idea of his based on that alone, that when the team was out there, six of them against, say, a swarm of insectoid aliens, having a few extra hands would be nothing but beneficial.  If those extra hands could act as sentinels to keep civilians back, aid and coordinate evacuations, and maintain a leash on villains when there were too many for the team to effectively handle at once…  Well, he didn’t see how Steve could _not_ agree to it.  Still, just in case logic once against failed to appeal to Captain America’s morals and scruples, he wanted reinforcements.

As usual, Bruce was proving to be less than reliable on that front.  “I can’t believe people are still going on about this,” the physicist murmured, watching the morning news unhappily.  Since Ellis had announced the Avengers would be a topic of discussion at GSIS4 three days ago, the media had been hyping the topic.  The coverage was nonstop, analysts and politicians standing on the proverbial soapbox and spouting their opinions to no end.  Predictions about what the world leaders, from the US to the smallest countries in Africa, would say at the summit tomorrow were flying faster than anyone could actually digest let alone reasonably discuss.  Would the summit attendees create policy in support of the Avengers?  Against them?  If so, what?  Did they even have the power to control the Avengers?  Social media networks were buzzing as well; there were millions of tweets and images of the fight in London, the brawl in Times Square, the fall of SHIELD and the incident in Greenwich and the Chitauri invasion.  It was a storm of press, both good and bad.  “It’s incredible.”

“Yeah, incredibly obnoxious,” Tony said.  He hardly looked up from his workstation, and the news story that greeted his gaze was enough to make him tighten his jaw and immediately go back to work.

Representative Theodore Heath, an older man from California who’d been picking fights with Stark Industries for twenty some odd years, stood in front of a gaggle of reporters.  The pompous windbag had been nothing but a thorn in Tony’s side, angry that Stark Industries was flourishing in his district and, as he put it, “not putting a cent of its profits back into its community”.  The argument went back to Howard’s time.  Old Teddy had not been a fan of Howard’s, and when Tony had inherited the company, he’d inherited the dispute as well.  Never mind the millions of dollars Stark Industries paid in taxes or the jobs it created or the philanthropy it produced.  And this wasn’t to say Tony didn’t recognize that there had been a time when the company hadn’t been so well-intentioned.  But ever since Afghanistan, he’d been doing his damnedest to make Stark Industries do the best it could for the world, and this bastard refused to even acknowledge that.

Of course he’d weigh in on this.  Of course.  “Tony Stark’s a war profiteer.  His father was, and he’s the same.  He’s made his living creating weapons of mass destruction and selling them and not giving two hoots who ends up with them and the collateral damage his greed has caused.  Now he’s arming the world’s deadliest warriors and says it’s to maintain peace.  Are we really going to trust a man whose missiles keep fueling fights in Eastern Europe and in the Middle East and in Southeast Asia…  The list goes on and on.  _This_ is the man running the Avengers, and you think he’s in it for the good of mankind?”

“Technically,” Tony said, fighting to keep his cool, “I don’t ‘run’ the Avengers.  And fuck you.  J?”

JARVIS didn’t even respond, simply turning the news coverage off.  Bruce sighed, leaning up from where he was slouched over one of the lab benches.  “And you guys wonder why I don’t want the Hulk out there making this worse.”

“Don’t even,” Tony warned.  He waved a hand through the holographic terminal, brushing aside the latest batch of fixes.  “Making this worse.  That implies what we’re doing is bad.  Where?  _Why?_ The world needs someone to protect it.  I don’t see anyone else stepping up to the plate.  The next time aliens come barging through the front door, who’s going to defend it?  Even when the world had SHIELD and was stupid enough to trust it, SHIELD couldn’t do that without us.”

Bruce raised his hands in submission.  “I’m not arguing that the world doesn’t need the Avengers.”

“Then what are you saying?” Tony said.  It came out harsher than he intended, but this was bothering him.  Watching the news teem with this bullshit over the last couple of days had been difficult.  He was the most visible face of the Avengers.  Captain America was maybe their true leader, but Iron Man was more well-known and far more controversial.  That was a product of who Tony was, with all of his media snafus and previous PR disasters.  For God’s sake, he’d been in the spotlight his whole life, since before he’d been born even, and it was no secret his behavior and reputation hadn’t always been stellar.  He was damn angry that that was being used to slander the team now; it wasn’t fair to them, to have what they were trying to accomplish sullied and disparaged because he used to sleep around or drink and party too much or act like an asshole.  Not one of the team had ever said anything to make him regret who he had been, but they didn’t need to.  When he had the likes of a national war hero, an Asgardian prince, and a decorated Air Force veteran fighting with him, he naturally felt like the weak link when it came to honor and integrity.

And he wasn’t the only one.  Black Widow.  Hawkeye.  Two murderers turned spies for SHIELD turned Avengers.  Tony had to admit that Natasha’s marriage to Steve had elevated her much more in the public eye than it had lowered him, but even still, not too many people looked kindly on the sort of lives they’d led before now.  No matter how hard she and Clint tried, there was blood on their hands that would never quite be washed clean, Steve’s included.  Banner, too, was judged by the monster inside the man far more often than by the merits of the man himself.  They were a mess of disparate personalities and perspectives, and the public knew that.  Tony saw it as a strength.  As much as he joked and bristled about being in control, the fact that they _were_ all different meant they all mattered, that they all contributed, that they were all important.  Still, he didn’t think there was anything he (or some of the others) could ever do to convince the naysayers that they were assets to this team.  Captain America they weren’t so ready to dismiss and demean.  But him?  He was fair game.

And Rogers had effectively muzzled him.

Bruce sighed.  For being so touchy about feelings and closeness and generally opening up, he was pretty proficient at reading people.  “Tony, what do you care about what people think?  You’re always the one who tells me to embrace who I am.”

Tony wasn’t in the mood for a lecture about his own hypocrisies.  He glared at where the news coverage had been playing, grinding his teeth.  “What’s the point of trying to protect people who don’t want you to protect them?  They have _no idea_ what we saved them from.  No idea how bad it could have been.  No idea what we went through to do it.”  His mind invariably went to the portal, to his suit failing and losing power all around him, to the weight of the warhead on his back and the horrors above.  An alien army and the cold, vastness of space.  Panic coiled in his belly before he remembered he wasn’t back there, facing his death and the death of everyone on earth if he didn’t succeed.  He swallowed through a suddenly dry throat and made himself focus back on his work.  Bruce didn’t miss his lapse, his face softening in sympathy.  Sympathy Tony didn’t want to hear, either.  “I know I shouldn’t just expect the worst, but come on.  We’ve seen this dog and pony show before.  It’s bullshit every time.”

“Haters gonna hate,” Bruce said, smiling faintly.

Tony couldn’t stop his smile.  “Did you really just say that?”

“I’m not a hermit.  I do know some pop culture references.”  Bruce took a step closer.  “Look, you’ve been through this.  They have to make their noise.  And once they’re through, it’ll be fine.”

Tony didn’t want to accept that even if he knew it was true.  He felt like he shouldn’t have to.  That he, that _all of them_ , had earned the right not to.  He shook his head, shoving the rest of his work away in frustration.  “It pisses me off.  It’s hard enough, you know?  Dangerous enough.  We’re trying to keep the world safe, and while we’re out risking our lives, they’re criticizing who we are and how we’re doing it.  That son of a bitch thinks I’m arming the world’s deadliest warriors for something other than peace.”  He was getting more and more riled.  “For what then?  War?  Because I _like_ doing this?  I liked what happened to the Cap and what happened to Hawkeye?  Assholes, every single one of those bastards.  I’m not developing the Iron Legion to wage war.”  He gestured to the bug list he’d tossed to the side.  “That’s not what this is about.  These assholes are making us out to be the bad guys when we’re the good guys and they can’t tell the fucking difference, and we shouldn’t have to stand for that.”

“Shouldn’t have to stand for what?”  Both men turned to see Steve come into the workshop, JARVIS opening the glass doors for him.  He had a few StarkPads and a thick manila folder.  Tony and Bruce shared a surprised look, like they’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t have been (although why they felt like that made no sense).  Steve looked confused as well and maybe a little hesitant.  “Didn’t you say you wanted to see me?”

Something was weird about the way Rogers said that.  It wasn’t sarcastic or teasing at all.  It was almost like he was genuinely looking for confirmation, which seemed pretty odd because Tony had called him not more than fifteen minutes ago to ask him to come up.  He knew the serum had brought Steve’s memory to the pinnacle of human perfection (probably even better than Tony’s memory or Bruce’s), so the chances that he’d forgotten were astronomically low to begin with, let alone that quickly.  Confused himself, all Tony could respond with was a very uncertain, “Yes?”

Steve actually looked relieved.  “Okay.”  His eyes glazed like he couldn’t make sense of something, and he just stood there near the doorway a second, brow furrowed and a not quite distressed expression on his face.

Tony glanced at Bruce again, but Bruce seemed as bothered as he felt.  “Something wrong, Steve?” the physicist eventually asked, taking a step closer to the younger man.

Abruptly and calmly Steve snapped himself out of it.  “No, I just…”  He gave a wry, dissatisfied smile, shaking his head.  “It’s nothing.  Not getting much sleep.”

“Natasha’s restless?” Bruce supplied.

Steve chuckled ruefully.  That sight alone might have been enough to make Tony swear off ever having kids, but Natasha’s behavior these last few weeks was a more compelling reason not to.  He couldn’t imagine Pepper like that.  It would be a dark day indeed the day that he was the sane and calm one in their relationship.  “Restless is a nice way of putting it,” Steve said.  Bruce smiled, finally stepping away to go back to his own work.  Tony saw him quickly swipe away the designs for Veronica on which he’d been laboring, like he, too, wasn’t quite sure he wanted their leader to know what he had on the back burner.  Tony had a sinking suspicion that Bruce was so reluctant to make Veronica a reality because it would lend credence to the idea that the Hulk could be made safe, which would then in turn lend credence to the idea that he could fight out with the team.  “You were saying we shouldn’t have to stand for something?”

Steve’s prompt drew his attention.  He held the other man’s gaze for a moment, wondering if he should go down this road again.  Last time a few days ago it had been more joking than serious, a quick brush-off of ideas and actions.  Maybe it was worth trying.  “Did you hear what they’re saying about us?”

“The press?”  Tony nodded.  Steve’s expression tightened, though whether in dislike of the topic or the flood of attention the Avengers were receiving Tony couldn’t tell.  “Maria’s keeping me informed.”

It was like pulling teeth with Rogers sometimes.  “Want to do anything about it?”

Steve sighed slightly.  “If you called me here to talk about this, then there’s nothing to discuss.”  That angered Tony more.  He liked Steve, but he didn’t get why he was so damn willing to make the sacrifice play _all the time._   “Tony, there’s as much support as there is anger, if not more so.”

“Our supporters aren’t in a position to do much more than tweet about it,” he returned, not willing to let Steve make light of this.

“There are more people behind the Avengers in the government, in the governments of the world, than you think there are,” Steve returned.  That made Tony bristle, reminding him that perhaps he was just having a knee-jerk reaction.  “I know that you want to protect us.  I want to, too.  But I trust President Ellis and the supporters we have in that summit room will do that.”

“What if they don’t?”  He couldn’t stop the question from bursting from his mouth.  His stomach clenched in dismay at his own desperation.

Steve’s voice dropped low, but it was strong with certainty.  “Then we’ll deal with it.”

That wasn’t the least bit comforting.  “By then, it might already be too late to do anything.  And in the meantime, they’re dragging us through the mud.”

Steve sighed again.  “Why is this bothering you so much?”

“What?  Tony Stark’s image is so tarnished that a little more mud flung his way shouldn’t matter?”  Even he was surprised at the spite in his tone.

“That’s not what I said,” Steve replied without heat.

“Why isn’t this bothering you _more_?”  Turning it back around on the other person was a tried and true method of deflection.

Steve set his pads and papers down on one of the workbenches.  Through the corner of his eye, Tony saw Bruce abandon his efforts to seem disinterested and busy with his work.  He looked up at Steve, wanting to hear his explanation.  “Because I have faith in people to do the right thing.  To fight for the right thing.”

How could he _possibly_ be this naïve after everything that had happened to him?  Didn’t he remember SHIELD falling apart just a few months ago, everything for which it had stood crumbling into lies and evil around them?   Didn’t he recall what that had done to him and the woman he loved?  Tony couldn’t fathom anyone could be so forgiving.  Or so trusting in the wake of so much betrayal.  “Pre-emptive strikes have their merits, Cap,” Tony said.  “Trying to stop the bad stuff before it starts.”

It was blatantly obvious Steve wasn’t sold on that idea.  “That’s not what the Avengers are about.  The Initiative was for a response team, not a strike team.”  He quirked an unhappy smile.  “Fought with a strike team.  Can’t say I cared much for it.”

Tony tried not to stiffen.  That was like him making a joke about Afghanistan, and it wasn’t fucking funny.  It _never_ was.  “So that’s it then.”  His voice was rougher with emotion than he wanted.  Being reminded of watching a man be tortured, of being tortured himself, tended to do that to him.  So did frustration.  Just _for once_ he wanted to be the one who won the PR battle.  “We’re just going to lay here and take their crap and when the next world crisis happens at their doorstep, go out and save them like business as usual?”

Steve glanced at Bruce, like he was trying to gauge where Banner stood in this discussion.  Tony doubted even Bruce knew where he stood.  “Yes.”  Glummer and more frustrated than ever, Tony shook his head.  Words wouldn’t quite come.  Steve exhaled slowly and calmly, coming closer.  “If they come after us, we’ll deal with it.  We’re not going to lay there and take it.  But until they do, I’m trying to focus on the big picture.  The picture these politicians and angry loud-mouths don’t see.  The Chitauri weapons and equipment that went missing when the Fridge was taken.  HYDRA and the monsters they’ve made.”  Steve’s voice tightened just a little, like he was only now realizing the meaning of what he’d said.  Who he’d inadvertently been referencing.  He didn’t stop, though.  “The scepter.  Strucker.”  He tossed the manila folder across the workbench toward Tony.  It hit the shining surface with a slap and slid toward him.  He glanced at it and saw dozens of old papers with faded handwriting on them that were slipping free.  Steve caught his gaze again and held it.  “ _This_ is what we’re supposed to be doing.  This is what we were brought together to do.”

“What Fury brought us together to do?” Bruce said.  Tony was always surprised when the other man played Devil’s advocate, but he didn’t know why.  Banner did it quite often.  “Or HYDRA?”

Clearly not appreciative of the sentiment, Steve regarded Bruce evenly.  “I don’t know what I think about Fury, but I believed him when he said he formed the Avengers to protect the world and fight the fights no one else could.  If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be doing this with my wife about to give birth.”  It wasn’t said harshly, but it felt that way.  Steve seemed to realize that, too, and his face immediately softened.  “Look, guys, there are going to be people who don’t like us.  From everything I’ve seen, it’s a vocal minority, an _extremely_ vocal minority.  We can’t control that.  And we can’t let it stop us.  They don’t know what’s in that folder.  They don’t know what’s out there.  It’s our job to protect people even if they don’t want to know and even if they hurt us.  But you know what?  I trust in President Ellis to have our backs.  I trust the hundreds of thousands of people out there who trust us to protect them.  I trust they will protect us when we need it.  Maybe that’s naïve–”

“It is,” Tony firmly declared.

“–but, like I said, I have faith in people to do the right thing.”  Tony didn’t like the sound of that.  It wasn’t in his nature to trust, to give people the benefit of the doubt.  He’d been betrayed too many times for that.  But he supposed that was one of the many things that separated him from Steve Rogers.  He wasn’t sure if it was a good or bad point.  It was just the way it was.  “So let it go for now.  They’re going to have their summit.  Everyone’s going to have their say.  People are going to talk about it.  Tweet it or blog it or Instagram it or whatever.  And then I guarantee you everything will calm down.  This will blow over, and they’ll find something else to obsess about.  Right?  Isn’t that how it works nowadays?”     

Tony had to smile at that.  He didn’t know if Steve was purposefully trying to make him feel better, but it was working.  “You should get a Twitter account.  Spill the beans about the babies.  That’ll get them spazzing about something else at warp speed.”

“What’s warp speed?  And no.  Natasha really would kill me.  With pain.”

Bruce shook his head.  “The world’s going to find out eventually.  Not unless you two are planning on living under a rock.”

Steve smiled.  “Actually, I’d appreciate it if we could get this started, because we’re going out in an hour.  To look at houses.”

The room went utterly silent, like time and space itself couldn’t quite figure out what to make of that.  Tony sure as hell couldn’t.  He stared incredulously at Steve, not certain if he should be upset or relieved or happy or hurt.  In truth, he was a little bit of everything.  Bruce, however, seemed more surprised than anything.  “You’re going out,” he repeated.  “To look at houses.”

“Yeah.”

“With Natasha.”

“Well, yeah.”  Steve offered something of a sheepish smile.  “It’s not that we don’t appreciate what you’ve offered us, Tony.  You’ve been more generous than I think anyone ever has been, and I’ll probably never find a way to thank you.  But… we need a place of our own.”  Tony must have looked upset.  He wasn’t sure he was upset, but he must have frowned or something, because Steve tried to disabuse his fears.  “This doesn’t mean I’m leaving or quitting.  We’re staying close.  Somewhere just outside the city.  Pepper’s got a list for us.”

Tony couldn’t quite get his head around this.  “Pepper’s got a list?  She did this?”

Steve shrugged and went to the pads he brought.  “Yeah.  She offered to help and I took her up on it.”  He thumbed one on and flipped through some images.  Obviously it was the list of potential homes Pepper had scoped out for them.  And obviously he was excited.  Why wouldn’t he be?  He was a poor kid from the Great Depression.  Owning a house in the New York Tristate area was probably a hell of a thing for him.  Tony came closer, angling around to glance at the images on the StarkPad.  Nice places.  Modest.  Big, but nowhere near huge or extravagant even though he knew for a fact that between Steve’s army back pay and his and Natasha’s SHIELD salaries, they could afford whatever they wanted.  These houses fit what Tony imagined Steve’s tastes would be to a tee.  Pepper had always been good at that sort of thing.  _When did she do this?_   “Her driver is going to take us.”

 _“Happy?”_   Tony shook his head, astounded.  “You have my head of security driving you around to go and look at houses today?”

Steve winced.  “That a problem?”

“Um, no.  No, I guess not.  Wow.  Okay.”  He felt like the world was tipped slightly out of focus.  He couldn’t say why exactly.  Honestly, why _shouldn’t_ Steve and Natasha want a home?  They were married.  They were about to start a family.  Of course they’d want their privacy, their security, their freedom to design things and arrange things the way they wanted (not that Tony wouldn’t have let them, and not that he could picture Natasha doing that, but still).  What had he expected?  Captain America and Black Widow to raise their children here in an environment completely inappropriate and unconducive to child-rearing?  Did he _really_ want babies in his sleek, magnificent, technologically advanced, _perfect_ Tower, crying at all hours and breaking things and spooing things…  “No, it’s good.  All good.  You want to talk about this now?”

“Want to hear about Strucker first?” Steve asked, reaching for another tablet and the folder.

 _Not really._   “Sure,” Bruce answered for him.

Steve opened the folder.  Sure enough, it was loaded with old documents, yellowed with time.  Tony wrinkled his nose.  “Is this going to be a history lesson?  I’m not big on history.”

“Mostly,” Steve replied.  “Unfortunately, we still don’t know much about the current Baron von Strucker.  Hill’s working on it, right, JARVIS?”

“Yes, sir.  With SHIELD’s reach and power, HYDRA was fairly thorough in their efforts to wipe any record of the identity of the new baron,” the AI replied.  “However, these old SSR files are quite informative.”

JARVIS had that note in his voice that suggested they were quite informative to someone who had nothing better to do with his time than research.  Tony sighed.  “Alright,” he conceded.  “And what ancient history have we uncovered?”

Steve was leafing through the documents.  “Ancient, but hopefully not too ancient.  Hill has more coming up from the Triskelion.  These are just from the first archives she got to.”

“How much is there?” Bruce asked.

“A lot.”  Bruce’s forehead crinkled at that, as if he wasn’t sure what to think of the amount of information SHIELD (and thus HYDRA) had had at its disposal, even this far back into history.  “SSR gathered a lot of intel, old diary entries and family documents and things like that.  I remember reading some of this during the war.”  He pushed some pages aside.  These looked like they’d been ripped from a _really_ old book.  The edges were ragged, and some of the binding was still visible.   “Apparently the Strucker family has been around for quite some time.  Twelve barons before the one I fought during the war.  They go way back to the first Baron von Strucker, Arnim von Strucker, who won the title by stopping an invading horde of Muslim Turks.  Arnim von Strucker was pretty power hungry.  He built a huge castle, fortified it, and the family protected it for decades.  The family gained more and more power and prestige, ascending through the ranks of German nobility, until World War I.”  Steve flipped through some more pages, handing them to Tony.  One was a family tree of some sort, written entirely in German.  Unable to read it (and not interested), Tony handed the papers to Bruce for him to peruse.  “Can JARVIS get these onto the mainframe somehow?”

“Of course, Captain,” JARVIS responded.  Bruce took the pages over to the holographic work terminal, where JARVIS proceeded to scan them.

“Okay, so they were old and powerful.  What else?” Tony asked impatiently.

“Johann von Strucker – that was Josef’s father – was at the head of the family through World War I.  They went down hard.  According to Josef’s diaries, his father taught him to hate everything and everyone that had done the family harm during Germany’s collapse.  That led him to the Nazi party and later to the Red Skull.  SSR’s spies never figured out just how he met Schmidt, but he did, and Schmidt promised him revenge.”

“Which he tried to get until you ended him,” Bruce finished.

Steve nodded.  “The entries from Josef’s diary get pretty insane at this point.  He was bloodthirsty.  There was nothing more important than vengeance and HYDRA.  How much you want to bet that family legacy is still going strong today?”

“Probably the safest bet I ever made,” Tony murmured, “and I still bet on the Yankees every time the Dodgers come to town.”  He shot his best shit-eating smile at Steve, who balked predictably.  “What’s this name here?  Pops up an awful lot.  Zemo?”

“Yeah,” Steve responded.  “Heinrich Zemo.  He was another baron, another lieutenant of the Red Skull.”

“Did you and the Commandos put him out of commission, too?”

Steve nodded again, and from the dark look on his face, maybe the story wasn’t the most pleasant.  “Zemo was a madman.  Unlike Strucker who was fanatically supportive of Schmidt, Zemo liked to go his own way, and his own way usually ended up with a lot of innocent people dying.”

“Nice,” Tony remarked unhappily.  “Good to know that HYDRA back then was as awful and perverted as it is today.”

“I’m pretty sure I read somewhere that Zemo and Strucker had some kind of rivalry,” Steve said.  “Decades old.”

“What?  In this stuff?” Bruce asked.

“No.  Back during the war.  It’s probably in the rest of the documents Maria’s trying to get.”  Steve handed more papers to Tony, who in turn handed them to Bruce so JARVIS could scan them.  The pages were appearing on the holographic display, translated in real time.  Tony shook his head.  Steve was absolutely right.  Some of these were diary entries, dated from the 1930s and 1940s.  One was even about a fencing championship.  Apparently Strucker had been something of a lover of swords.  He’d been the Heidelberg Fencing Champion and he’d competed in the 1936 Olympics.  _Okay…  That’s random._  

Steve looked displeased.  “If Strucker has resurfaced, Zemo might as well.”  The way he said that, tense and bothered, was enough to snatch Tony’s attention.  Steve was staring with glazed eyes at the workbench, and there was something about that that didn’t sit well with Tony.  He looked a little like he was in pain.  Had Baron Zemo been that bad of a character?  Or was this something else?  Before either of them could ask, Steve seemed to shake himself out of it.  “We need to start digging through all of this,” he said authoritatively.  “There might be some hints as to who the current Baron von Strucker is.  Or where he is.  JARVIS?”

“As Mr. Stark says, Captain, I am on it.”

Steve smiled at that, but he still seemed troubled.  “Good.”  He turned to Tony.  “So what did you want to talk about?”

Tony watched Steve, suddenly not feeling right about this.  Not about the Iron Legion, of course.  That was still as awesome now as it had been ten minutes ago.  But Steve looked… _tired_.  Pale, even.  A little worn and a lot weary.  “You know what, Cap?  It’ll hold.”  He smiled softly.  “Go take your wife and find her a house.”

Steve seemed surprised, arching an eyebrow.  “You sure, Tony?  You seemed excited.”

Tony waved him away.  “Yeah.  Get out of here.”  Steve’s grin was genuine, as was his relief, and he gathered up his StarkPads and nearly bolted.  Tony called after him.  “I got your new gloves ready for testing when you get back!”

“Thanks!”

“And make sure you let her pick!  Say it after me!  ‘Yes, dear!’”

Tony watched him go, a niggling sense of worry curdling in his stomach.  As Rogers disappeared down the corridor outside his workshop, Bruce came to stand beside him.  Apparently Tony wasn’t the only one who’d noticed about Steve seemed off.  “Was he okay?”

“Sure,” Tony said after a beat.  He brushed aside the scanned documents and brought the bug list for the Iron Legion back before him.  “Why wouldn’t he be?”

Bruce didn’t seem entirely convinced by that.  Truth be told, Tony wasn’t either.  But why wouldn’t Steve be fine?  Still, he made a mental note to have JARVIS check in on Steve when he and Natasha returned.

* * *

Happy Hogan drove them north up the Hudson River into Westchester County.  Steve had spent his entire youth living in Brooklyn, but he’d rarely left New York City.  He’d gone out to Long Island a few times with his mother when he’d been a young boy.  When he’d gotten older, he and Bucky had taken the train to Hoboken, New Jersey once to visit some girl on whom Buck had been sweet (and her younger sister, who was “perfect” for Steve and was “dying” to double date with them.  Right.).  But even back in his day, Westchester County had been too affluent for the likes of poor sons of Irish immigrants.  They were blue-collar born and bred, and the towns and villages east of the Hudson River were anything but.  These places were pretty, prosperous, with nicely landscaped lawns that were lush and green and beautiful, spacious houses.  He’d grown up in an apartment barely bigger than his bedroom back in DC and in a place where summer was differentiated from winter by only the temperature and differing shades of brown.  This was idyllic by comparison.  Old mindsets were hard to shake.  He didn’t belong here, so he couldn’t imagine living here.

Obviously, Natasha couldn’t quite imagine it, either.  She sat next to him in the back of one of Stark’s Range Rover SUVs, one hand around her stomach and the other resting on the leather seat between them.  As crazy and unbelievable as this situation was for him, it was probably even more so for her.  She’d grown up as an orphan on the streets of Stalingrad, stealing and scrounging to survive.  Then Brushov had gotten his hands on her, and she’d been raised in the Red Room, being trained and transformed into an assassin.  After a life spent killing on behalf of someone else, SHIELD had gotten a hold of her and turned her to their ends.  And that was where she’d been when Steve had met her, well-versed in getting the job done, an expert in espionage.  _This_ was something with which he knew she had no experience.  American suburbia.  White picket fences and garages and patios.  Family dogs and kids running around.  School buses and nice cars and barbeques.  She was trying hard not to seem it, but Steve knew her too well not to notice that she was completely out of her element.  Like a fish out of water.  And she, too, felt she didn’t belong.  Steve’s disquiet was a sort of knee-jerk reaction.  He’d always wanted a wife and a family when he’d been a kid, but they’d seemed like an impossible dream because he’d been so small and sick.  The doctors who’d taken care of him off and on during his youth had always had differing opinions on how to treat his asthma and his scoliosis and weak heart and bad ear and faulty immune system.  Still, they’d all agreed on one thing: he’d never see thirty.  Well, he was going to see thirty this July, and he was healthier than imaginable, married, and about to become a father.  As impossible as all that seemed, though, he didn’t think he didn’t deserve it because he wasn’t worthy.

He knew that was _exactly_ what was going through Natasha’s head, though.  He could practically see it.  It had been a constant note in their lives since they’d gotten married.  She was Black Widow.  She’d been a cold-blooded murderer, a liar, a seductress.  She’d done too much evil to ever be good enough to be Captain America’s wife and the mother of his children.  No matter how much he told her otherwise, she couldn’t come to terms with how dark and damaged she thought she was.  He knew he’d spend all the rest of his days trying to tell her otherwise, but he silently feared it would never be enough.  She was practically radiating tension just sitting there, stiff and unsure, eyes narrowed and breath shallow.  He knew she was doing this for him, and that made him feel worse.  “You want to call it quits?” he asked.  His voice was loud in the silence.  “Go home?”

“I thought we were finding home,” she said softly.  Despite how uncomfortable she was, she turned to him and offered up a sweet smile that most people couldn’t imagine her making.  God, if the world could see her like this.  If _she_ could see herself.  The love in her eyes.  The strength of her soul.  _How far she’d come._   Steve couldn’t believe it sometimes, that this radiant person with him now was the same woman who’d been so cold to him when they’d met, who’d closed her heart so tightly to the point where she could no longer feel, who’d followed orders blindly and with no care for how right or safe or good they were.  He couldn’t say precisely when he’d fallen in love with her, but now he couldn’t fathom _not_ feeling this way.  She deserved him.  She deserved _everything_ he could give her and more.

He took her hand from between them and lifted it to his lips, kissing her knuckles.  His thumb brushed over her rings – the rings he’d put on her finger with a question and a promise of forever – and he let himself be relieved for the millionth time since they’d gotten married last October that she’d said _yes._

“The first house is coming up, Cap.  Should be there in a few minutes,” Happy announced from the driver’s seat.

Steve lowered Natasha’s hand, but he didn’t let it go.  “Thanks, Mr. Hogan,” he replied.

“Just call me Happy,” the other man responded.

“Stark give you that nickname?” Steve asked.

“What do you think?” Happy responded lightly.  “He always thought I frowned too much when we first met.  I don’t know.  I feel like I’m a pretty chipper guy.”  Steve had to agree.  Hogan had been nothing but pleasant to them since they’d left Stark Tower and headed north along the Hudson River.  Happy glanced in the rearview mirror.  “Hey, uh, I never got a chance to ask you, but one of these days, you’re going to need to teach me some of your moves.  After, you know, you’re not pregnant anymore.  Of course.”

That comment was directed at Natasha.  She smiled slyly, amused at that and at Steve’s look of confusion.  “Your moves?” he questioned.

“I might have shown Happy a thing or two in the boxing ring back when I was working for Stark,” she replied smartly.

“Shown me a thing or two?  You dropped me before I even got started.  Practically broke my back,” Happy corrected, turning to drive them up a more secluded road.  “First and last time I ever underestimated a woman.”

Steve chuckled and felt _proud_ for reasons that were completely stupid.  Like Natasha’s skills were his to be proud of.  _Not in the least._ “Yeah, well, if it’s any consolation, she did that to me, too.”  His mind went back to the first time they’d sparred at the Triskelion.  One second he’d been charging her.  The next he’d been flat on his back with her straddling him, completely at her mercy and trying to pretend he didn’t _like_ being that way.

“Love at first TKO, huh?” Happy said with a laugh.  “Well, if she pulled that move on Captain America and it worked, I guess I had no chance in hell.”

Natasha turned coy in a blink.  “I have a lot of moves that work on Captain America,” she said.  “On _only_ Captain America.”

Happy’s eyes widened with his next glance in the rearview mirror, and Steve felt his cheeks go hot.  Thankfully, they’d arrived at the first house, so the moment of horror didn’t last too long.  Happy pulled into the driveway.  “Um, do you want–”

“No, thanks.  It’s fine.”  Steve stepped out, going around the back quickly to open Natasha’s door.  “I can’t believe you just said that,” he admonished quietly, simultaneously mortified, embarrassed, and turned on as he held out his hand to help her out.  “You’re incredible.”

She took it and stood, her other hand immediately going to the small of her back.  She looked so proud of herself.  Smug.  “The day I stop making you blush is the day I stop living.”  She smiled again, enjoying his flustered stare, before winding her arm through his at his elbow, clearly indicating she was ready to do this.

“You want me to just hang here?” Happy asked after he’d rolled down the driver’s window.

Steve shook his head.  “You don’t have to.”

“It’s no big deal.  Been waiting around for Tony for ages.  I’ll just back out into the street and give you guys some privacy.”  They watched as Happy did just that.  He drove down the road just a bit, parking the SUV under a huge, sprawling oak at the edge of the winding driveway.

The afternoon was quiet.  It was too early in spring for birds or flowers.  The vaguest hints of green were dotting the house’s expansive front yard, but more than a few clumps of snow were lingering.  Natasha shrugged deeper into her coat with the cold, appraising the house before them with wary eyes.  Steve could already tell she didn’t like it.  Frankly, he didn’t much, either.  It was large, brick-faced, and too… opulent for his tastes.  The yard was impeccable, even with the last vestiges of winter clinging to it.  The house looked almost forbidding.  “Should we check it out?”

She hesitated and not entirely because she wasn’t thrilled with the house’s exterior.  “You’re sure this is okay,” she said, holding tighter to his arm.  “That no one’s going to find out.”  She actually looked around, glancing over her shoulder with a quick, precise sweep of her eyes to see if they were being watched.

Steve smiled encouragingly.  “Pepper told me no one would be able to track it.  It’s completely confidential.”  He cupped her face, her cheeks turning rosy with the chill in the air.  “The owners have already moved.  The realtors unlocked the doors and left.  There’s no one here.  You don’t need to worry.”

“It’s all I do now,” she said.  There was bitterness there that Steve didn’t like to hear.

“Come on.”  He tugged her close, letting his hand settle on the twins as he pressed a firm but tender kiss into her forehead.  “No one’s going to know.  I know settling down’s not something you ever thought you’d do–”

“Ever.”

“–but it’s going to be okay.  I promise.  We’re safe here.  And when it’s time and we’re ready–”

“ _If_.  _If_ we’re ready.”

“–okay, _if_ we’re ready, we’ll let the world know about them.”  He squeezed her belly gently and was awarded a little kick.  It was probably rubbish, but he liked to think they knew it was him.   “Okay?”

She set her hand over his, uncertain still, searching his eyes.  Trying to be strong for his sake.  He was going to tell her more, that he knew how hard this was for her and how much he appreciated her and loved her and how this was the right thing to do for their family, but he didn’t need to.  She smiled and nodded.  Happy was probably watching from the street, but she still leaned up and kissed him deeply, wrapping her hand around the back of his neck to keep his face lowered to hers.  “Alright,” she said when she let him go.  “Let’s check it out.”

They went inside.  The interior didn’t do much more to increase Steve’s like of the house.  Not that he knew specifically what he liked.  Or what he wanted.  He’d never owned a house before, had hardly even been in one in fact.  Still, whatever he wanted, this place didn’t have it.  It was spacious, beautifully and expensively decorated, but everything was too perfect.  The house was absolutely immaculate, without marks or blemishes.  The furniture had obviously been placed there for effect, because it was more than obvious no one was actually living there.  It looked new and unused and was arranged like a photograph from a magazine, everything set just so and undisturbed.  Nothing was touched.  He felt bad even walking on the polished floors and perfect carpet.  It was like venturing into a museum, and he couldn’t imagine young children tearing around, messing things up.  The air just seemed wrong, pompous (which felt inappropriate to think because he didn’t know these people and it wasn’t his place to judge).  They barely even started upstairs before Natasha squeezed his hand and shook her head.

The next house was much the same, though this one had more of a modern feel to it.  They scratched it off the list and checked the third.  That was similar, too, too big and too rich for both of them.  The area was certainly nice, Steve noted, as they drove around.  Quiet.  Secluded.  That was probably why Pepper had selected it.  Private and secure but not far from the city.  The houses were too stately for his tastes, though.  The people who lived here were well-to-do and extremely wealthy.  He wondered what they would think if they learned Captain America and Black Widow could be their neighbors.  Somehow he doubted they’d be welcoming.

They wouldn’t learn that, though.  With Pepper’s help, this could be kept quiet.  He didn’t know much about rich people, but something told him they weren’t all outgoing (and tactless) like Tony.  If these people craved privacy for themselves, they’d probably respect his and Natasha’s.  The two of them could just be another young, wealthy couple.  And it would be believable.  He supposed that he would have to get used to that idea.  He _wasn’t_ a poor kid from Brooklyn anymore.  And Natasha wasn’t a Red Room assassin.  They had money to spend, so maybe they should spend it.  That was what Stark would tell him to do.  Maybe they deserved to live a bit of a lie.  And maybe they deserved some luxury.

He didn’t think Natasha wanted luxury, though.  As Happy took them to place after place, she seemed to be losing interest in the process.  She was looking around at the houses, answering when he asked her what she thought, but she wasn’t invested.  As much as he wasn’t certain what he liked, he had no concept about her inclinations.  He was trying to gauge that from her reactions, but those were becoming more and more impassive.  It might have been because she was tiring.  He could see it in her eyes while the afternoon wore on.  She was moving slower and with more tenderness.  She was dragging behind him.  “You want to call it quits?” he asked again as they walked back to the SUV after the latest rejection.  This time he was more serious.

Natasha grimaced as she climbed back into the backseat of the car.  Happy had a bottle of water for her, which she accepted gratefully.  “There’s one more, right?” she asked a bit breathlessly as Steve slid in beside her after going around.

“Yeah.  But we don’t need to figure this out today.  We can–”

“Let’s see it.”

Happy had JARVIS navigate the way.  As quiet and secluded as these neighborhoods were, the new area was even more so.  They were deeper in the woods, and the houses were set back far from the roads and hidden in the trees.  There was a lake further down; Steve could see its rippling, gray surface between the dark brown trunks.  Had it been summer and the trees full with leaves, the lake would probably be hidden from the road.  Happy turned down a private drive.  There was a yard to the right, not as big and as immaculately landscaped as the others they’d seen.  And the house was ahead.  It looked a lot nicer than the pictures Pepper had sent him.  It was a large, white colonial.  Unassuming.  Unimposing, like so many of the others had felt.  Simple lines and colors.  No marble or columns or fancy walkways.  Lots of windows.  Steve liked it instantly.  It had a cul-de-sac that curved before its front porch and a detached garage a little further back and to the left, half nestled in the woods.  Happy pulled up to the porch’s steps and stopped the car.  “Looks really nice,” he commented.

Steve got out.  The air smelled different here, a little fresher.  Colder and crisper.  More earthy thanks to the woods.  Natasha got out, too, not waiting for any help.  She was staring at the house with an expression Steve couldn’t read.  Dislike?  Dread?  He hoped neither, because the more he appraised the outside, the more he liked it.  He let her have a moment before he couldn’t wait anymore.  “Want to go in?”

She folded her arms around her stomach, wrapping herself tighter in her wool coat, and nodded.  Steve stepped up onto the porch.  The wood planks creaked.  For some reason, he enjoyed the sound of it.  Then he opened the front door.

It was the first house they’d seen that day that didn’t _look_ like it was putting on a show to sell itself.  The entryway was open, spacious, with stairs up right before them.  The floors were hardwood and the walls had been recently painted (if the lingering scent of new paint was any indication), but there were scuffs on the floors and marks on the molding.  It was clear right away that this house had been enjoyed, _lived in_ by a family.  It was completely empty, but it felt homier.  To the left was a dining room.  To the right was a study.  Together they walked further inside, the floors creaking softly.  Steve flipped on the lights to the kitchen, which had obviously been recently updated with granite countertops, new cabinets, and new appliances.  A breakfast bar was on one side, curling around, and in the center was an island.  He wasn’t big on cooking, but he knew enough to realize it was more than adequate.  A dinette was attached.  There were more rooms on the first floor, a formal dining room and a couple more living areas, one with a beautiful brick fireplace.  Everything was open, light, and airy.  And then…

“Wow,” Steve commented.  The dinette opened up to a sizeable stone patio that was far more elaborately landscaped than the front of the house, and beyond that there was a fairly lengthy stretch of gently sloping yard that led down to the lake.  It was a heck of a nice view.  The woods flanked the yard on either side, adding a level of privacy.  Steve opened the French doors and stepped out onto the empty patio.  All of the sudden, he could picture it.  The twins, playing out here, laughing and shrieking in joy.  Swimming in the lake.  Running in the yard.  Natasha and him, watching the sunset across the glassy surface of the water.  He could imagine this view, these trees thick with snow, vibrant with summer, burning with fall colors, and brimming with new leaves.  He hadn’t known what he’d wanted before, but this was surely it.

He was smiling a lot as he looked over the outside, but he made himself tone down his excitement when he turned back to Natasha.  He didn’t want to sway her opinion.  She was gazing around, again her expression stoic (and that disappointed Steve, to be honest, but he wasn’t going to show it).  She was never easy to read, but _this_ was killing him.  The soft sounds of the slight breeze working its way through the forest and the waves of the lake lapping at the edge of the yard was loud in the impatient quiet.  “Kinda reminds me of the lagoon on that island,” she finally said.  “Remember?”  He nodded.  Of course he remembered.  “Doesn’t it?”

It did.  It wasn’t a tropical paradise of course, but the secluded, protective embrace of the trees and the smell of water and the way it made him feel – like this place was safe and meant for just the two of them – was very reminiscent of that tentative evening they’d spent together on their first mission.  “Yeah,” he agreed softly.

She turned and went back inside.  He didn’t know what to make of that, so he numbly followed her.  They went upstairs, finding a nice wide hallway and three good-sized bedrooms in addition to the master suite.  Everything was nice.  Used and worn, but that only added character in Steve’s mind.  He saw _kids_ in these bedrooms, playing and scraping the floors sometimes and messing up the newly painted walls.  The master bedroom overlooked the lake and had a ridiculously large bathroom attached to it.  And the basement, they discovered when they went all the way back down, was mostly finished.  There was a guest room down there with a private bathroom complete with a shower.  The rest of the space had obviously been a play room.  The carpet wasn’t new, in decent shape but worn.  It was cozy.

Back upstairs, he looked around some more while Natasha stayed in the kitchen.  He could see she was running on reserves in terms of energy, so he wrapped it up faster than he wanted to.  Smiling uncertainly at her, he gestured around.  “So what do you think?”  She looked a tad breathless, a tad flushed.  She even winced a little.  Concern prickled through Steve.  “Nat?  You okay?”

The wince turned into a firmer grimace, and her hand fell to the top of her stomach.  “Yeah,” she said.  “Contraction.”  Steve jolted forward, reaching for her.  She waved him away.  “No, no.  It’s fine.  Not a real one.”

“There are fake ones?”

“Yes.  Read about them.  Think I can tell the difference now.”  He wasn’t sure whether to be terrified or relieved.  And he wanted to ask her what the difference was – _how in the world can she be sure?_ – but he didn’t.  He swallowed through a dry throat, watching her ride it out a couple of seconds more.  A breath later, she seemed composed again.  She gathered herself with remarkable poise, actually, far more than he felt.  “What do you think?”

“Huh?”  She grinned a little, tipping her head to the open areas around the kitchen.  He wasn’t that easily appeased.  “Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked again.

Her smile turned thin.  “If you knew the number of BS contractions I’ve had over the last few months, you wouldn’t think twice.  I’m _fine_.”  He didn’t know if she was brushing it off or being serious.  He hoped it was the latter.  “So what do you think?”

It took him a minute to get his brain back in gear.  He realized then that he couldn’t hide anything from her.  This was the first time the entire afternoon that she’d asked him that because she already _knew_ what he thought.  That this was worth discussing.  He shrugged, raising his arms a little in helplessness.  There was no reason to lie.  “I like it.”  He looked around again, like he needed to be sure.  He did need to be sure.  “I like it a lot.  It’s private and secluded.  Quiet.  It’s got enough space but not too much.  It feels like a home.  Open.  Comfortable.  It’s what we need.  And the lake…”  He’d never imagined living in a house that had a private beach.  Never.

She shook her head.  “You and I don’t exactly have a whole lot of good experiences with water.”

That was true enough.  He hadn’t thought it was possible to almost drown the number of times he had, and most of those times had been with her.  “So let’s make some,” he said simply.  She shook her head again, far more amused this time.  He didn’t know how to make her understand how this place made him _feel._   It wasn’t just that he liked the rooms and the layout and exterior and the waterfront.  It wasn’t just it had everything they needed.  It was comfort and security.  It was seeing himself and his family there.  “Nat…”

“I want what you want.”

It was not at all like her to talk like that.  He’d been _dreading_ it despite how uncharacteristic it was because he knew it was defeat on her part.  Her power and fire smothered.  Her _deferring_ to him.  He didn’t like that.  “I want to know what _you_ want,” he said coming closer, “because I’ve never heard you say something like that to me.”

She grimaced like she’d been caught.  “Rogers…”

“Romanoff.”  He wasn’t backing off.  This was too important.  This wasn’t just his life and his family and his decision.  It was hers, too, no matter how unqualified she felt she was to make it.  It was _theirs._

“Steve.”  She grabbed his coat and gently tugged him to her.  It took her a moment to gather up the courage to say what she wanted to say.  “I don’t know what I’m doing here.  I have no idea what makes a good house.  I don’t know what we need.  You know that.  So when I say that I want what you want, I mean it.  I’m not saying it because I don’t care.  I’m saying it because I trust you to make the right decision.  If this…”  She lowered her voice and leaned into his chest.  “If this feels like home to you, then it’s home to me.”

Steve smiled.  “Yeah?”

She nodded, wrapping her arms around his waist.  “Yeah.  Go ahead.  Do what you think is best.”

“I thought you don’t want me giving the orders,” he lightly teased.

“Well, sometimes I like a man who calls the shots,” she conceded.  “Sometimes.”

“You want to go upstairs and figure out which room should be the nursery?”

“Don’t push it, Rogers.”

He laughed and relaxed, sweeping his fingers gently through her hair.  He kissed the crown of her head.  For a long moment they stood in the kitchen, letting this become a reality.  He’d been worried finding something would be harder, but it hadn’t been, and now a huge weight was gone from his shoulders.  He didn’t want to leap into a decision (well, his head didn’t – his heart was already well on its way), but no matter what, they had this.  A home for their children.  A home for themselves.  For their family.

Natasha was sagging against him.  “Tired?” he murmured into her hair.  She nodded.  “You still want to go out?”  She shook her head.  They’d talked about it before, that Bruce had apparently recommended they go out on a date while they still could.  Natasha had brought it up.  Going out had never been something that had interested her, even when they’d been alone in DC after Crimea.  After house hunting today, they’d made tentative plans to go to a restaurant and get dinner.  Very tentative.  Happy had assured them he could get them into a few eateries without them being seen using Stark’s connections, and Steve was sure he could, but the risk seemed huge for the reward.  When Natasha had first mentioned it, he’d been supportive (and hugely shocked), but secretly he’d been doubtful.  And it was okay with him that they stay in.  At this point, he didn’t want any more stress on her.  Not when she was having contractions (fake or not).  “How about we go back to the Tower, I get us some dinner while you relax, and then we take it easy?”

“Loafing around like a beached whale,” she muttered into his shirt.  “About all I’m good for now.”  He opened his mouth to argue, but she kissed his objections away.  “Kidding.  Come on.”  She pulled away and headed to the door, looking around one last time, more comfortable than before.  More approving.  Steve watched her take it in, watched her smile and her eyes be light and hopeful, as she walked back down the hallway to the front entryway.  Smiling himself, he followed her.

It wasn’t until he crossed the threshold onto the porch that the dizziness came, and it came out of nowhere.  All the sudden the world was tilting, spinning around his head, and pain shot through his skull.  It was vicious, stealing the breath right out of his chest, and for a seemingly endless eternity, he wavered with his heart absolutely pounding in his ears and everything collapsing around him.  He didn’t think.  He couldn’t.  And he couldn’t breathe.  His lungs were seizing up inside him.  He couldn’t do anything but struggle through it, fighting just to get a gasp of air through his lips and into his body, _fighting to…_

“Captain?  Are you okay?”

Just like that, the abrupt attack (if that was what it was) was gone.  Disoriented, Steve slammed back into the world to find himself leaning whole-heartedly into one of the posts of the front porch.  It took him a moment to realize that, that the thing poking into his right shoulder and side was the pillar.  That he was standing at the house and that Natasha and Happy were watching him.  Worriedly.  He was panting, trembling even, and there was sweat itching on the small of his back under his shirt and coat.  His legs felt weak and rubbery, and his heart was thrumming shallowly and fast against his sternum.  He swallowed down his nausea.  _What the hell…_   That was twice now today that that had happened, where all of the sudden he was dizzy and in pain and struggling to focus.  It had happened that morning, right after Tony had summoned him to his workshop.  He’d nearly doubled over in the elevator, the agony siphoning the strength right out of his body, and when the attack had passed, he’d nearly lost consciousness in relief.

His thoughts turned to mud as he stood there, staring at Natasha and Happy as they stared at him.  What was it?  Stress, maybe.  Anxiety.  Maybe something like what he’d experienced back in Moscow during his search for Natasha.  A panic attack.  And he wasn’t getting enough sleep.  He felt fine otherwise, so he thought he should just shake it off. 

But he couldn’t.  Maybe he didn’t know what it was, but he knew what it felt like.  It felt like he was ten years old again, suffering in his mother’s bed while she tried desperately to bring down his raging fever.  It felt like the world was distant and distorted by heat and delirium as he struggled to live through an endless night, his lungs full of fluid and his brain burned by fire and his body withering under the crushing tortures of pneumonia.  It felt like being sick.

Really sick.

That couldn’t be.

“Steve?”  Natasha’s voice drew him from his thoughts.  He felt sweat tickling again, thick and salty on his upper lip.  “Steve, are you alright?  You look…”

Of course he was alright.  He snapped out of it, the pain long gone, and briskly walked down the porch steps to join them.  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he answered decisively.  “Let’s get going.”

* * *

Natasha was worried.

Very worried.

There was something wrong with Steve.

The thought had been tickling through her head since yesterday actually, when he’d slept in longer than her.  They’d been sharing a bed for more than six months, and she’d _never_ gotten up before him like that.  Obviously there’d been a few mornings of late in the wake of a tough battle and a late homecoming where he’d needed more rest.  But the skirmish in London against the Kretal had been three days ago, and he should have been long recovered from that at this point.  However, he’d seemed fine, so she’d dismissed her concerns and focused on other things.

Now…  Something was wrong.  He sat beside her on the ride back to the city, quiet and almost forlorn, worried himself, and that more than anything confirmed that there was a reason to be worried.  She’d never seen him falter like that.  So suddenly and inexplicably.  She hadn’t even noticed at first.  One second he’d been beaming, so happy that she liked the house, walking behind her.  He’d stopped to close the door.  She hadn’t realized he wasn’t following until Happy had said something.  He’d been pale and sweating and shaking.  _Shaking_.  And leaning into the post of the porch like if it hadn’t been there, he would have just collapsed.

She was watching him beside her and not making much of a point to hide it.  He was looking out the window and not making much of an effort to seem composed, either.  “You’re sure you’re okay?” she asked after quite a few long minutes filled with tense silence.

His Adam’s apple bobbed in a jerky motion when he swallowed.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Yeah, I’m okay.”

He wasn’t.  She could _see_ it.  Happy obviously could as well, because he kept nervously glancing at them in the rearview mirror.  Natasha didn’t like this at all.  All the good cheer of the afternoon disappeared like it had never been there.  She reached over and pried his hand from where it was clenched like iron on his knee.  She couldn’t loosen his grip until he realized she was trying, and she took his hand in hers, weaving their fingers together.  His palm was clammy.  She wanted to press him.  She wanted to ask until he was honest with her.  However, she didn’t, because over the next few minutes while she hesitated, he pulled himself together.  Color returned to his face.  His grip on his other knee went lax, and he began sweeping his thumb over her index finger in a comforting caress.

About an hour later it was almost dark and they were back at the Tower.  Steve led her up to their suite.  The silence between them wasn’t quite comfortable, but the worry and anxiety of the car ride had definitely abated.  He seemed completely okay.  Maybe a little withdrawn but physically fine.  Seeing that made her own aches and fatigue reassert themselves with a vengeance.  He asked her what she wanted for dinner.  She told him he should pick.  He teased her, telling her he was too tired to run through the gamut of the things she liked until she made a decision.  Truth be told, she really didn’t care.  She was hungry because she was hungry, not because she really cared what she ate.  She settled on Thai food.  As Steve was putting his jacket back on and grabbing a baseball cap and his wallet, JARVIS reminded him he could order their dinner from any Thai restaurant in the city and have it delivered.  Steve returned that it was fine, that he wanted the walk.  With a quick peck on Natasha’s lips, he was gone.

Alone in the silence of their suite, Natasha’s entire body tingled with disquiet.  “JARVIS…  Have you noticed anything wrong with Captain Rogers since the last battle?”

“Wrong in what way?” JARVIS questioned.  “And I fear you would be a far better judge of his behavior than I.”  She wondered if the AI was purposefully being cagey in some attempt to protect Steve’s privacy.  “Nothing aside from an episode this morning.”

That didn’t sound good.  “Episode?”

“For a brief period of approximately three minutes, Captain Rogers suffered some sort of physiological response in the elevator on his way to meet with Mr. Stark.  His heartrate elevated to unhealthy levels, his respiration became strained, and he seemed to be experiencing an altered level of consciousness.”

Natasha’s heart lurched.  “What?”

“He ‘zoned out’, for lack of a better term.”  JARVIS paused.  “This is purely conjecture on my part, but I believe he might have been experiencing a panic attack.  His symptoms were extremely similar to those commonly associated with panic attacks.”

A panic attack?  She supposed that made sense.  She’d seen Steve suffer through one once or twice.  Their first mission when they’d nearly drowned in the ballast tank aboard the pirate ship had been the worst and the one and only time she’d witnessed him completely break from reality.  Still, he had nightmares quite often, and he usually woke up from them extremely disoriented, gasping like he couldn’t breathe, heart racing and bathed in sweat.  It made sense.  Steve had a pretty severe case of PTSD, but so did she, when she thought about it.  And Clint.  And Stark.  Who among them didn’t?

Was that what this was?  He’d had a panic attack?  It made sense, but it didn’t at the same time.  She supposed it could have explained why he’d brushed it off, but that wasn’t typical of him, as odd as it sounded.  Unlike Natasha who still had trouble speaking of the past horrors of her life, Steve was usually candid whenever he had a nightmare.  And his nightmares were troubling because he remembered things so vividly, so dreaming about his past traumas was akin to reliving them.  The most pervasive of his terrors concerned the war, the crash, and what the STRIKE Team and the Winter Soldier had done to him.  She always knew when he’d had a nightmare about her in some context (the one she feared the most was over what she’d done to him in Crimea) because those were the times he _wouldn’t_ talk.  Was that why he’d dismissed her worries and closed himself off on the ride home?  Was he worried about losing her?  Or, worse, that she would hurt him?  Had her behavior lately triggered that?

Her mind ran with those grotesque thoughts to places she wasn’t willing to go, so she dismissed them.  She wasn’t going to think about this because it was nonsense.  Complete nonsense.  Instead she went and changed into some comfortable stretchy pants and a warm sweater.  Then she tried to wait patiently for Steve to return.  The twins were restless, hungry themselves probably.  A particularly hard series of kicks to the top of her womb set off a flurry of contractions, and she grimaced her way through that as she set the table in their suite for dinner.  Thankfully it passed, and she sat with a glass of water and looked over the details about the house and watched the clock.

It seemed to take forever for Steve to return, but it was only about forty-five minutes.  He was fine, not even flushed from the cold.  She thought she did a fairly decent job at hiding how relieved she was.  He served their food, splitting a few Thai dishes between them.  Dinner was quiet, peaceful, and pleasant.  They talked about the houses, even though it was obvious which one was the winner.  They talked about Clint being the twins’ godfather.  Natasha hadn’t told him yet; Clint had been a shadow again these last few days since London, and she didn’t want to bother him if he was working through something.  Steve mentioned that Sam thought Clint needed some professional help to aid him in dealing with his problems, and though he said this with nothing but concern and sincerity, it was more than a little hypocritical if he was indeed having panic attacks.  She didn’t call him out on that, even if it did dampen her spirits again.  And she didn’t ask him what was triggering his panic attacks.  She wasn’t brave enough.  Thankfully, he changed the subject.  He told her about the information he and Hill had located on Baron von Strucker, which was distracting enough that she could forget about it once more.

When they were done, he cleared the plates away and cleaned up.  It wasn’t that late, but so much walking that day had worn her (that was well and truly pathetic, but she didn’t feel like pretending it hadn’t).  They settled in the living area.  Steve had a few folders from SSR that he must have gotten from Hill’s shipment from the Triskelion, and he was leafing through them with half his attention on that and half on the episode of _Game of Thrones_ they were watching.  Eventually he gave up working and tossed the old documents to the coffee table before laying down, sprawling on the couch with his head in her lap (well, what remained of her lap).  He kissed her stomach before half-heartedly following the rest of the episode as she carded her fingers through his hair.  During all this time she’d spent sitting around alone while the rest of the team had been out raiding HYDRA bases and working, she’d caught up on TV shows.  He asked her what was going on.  She explained.  And when it was over, she went to take a long, hot shower.

The bathroom had fogged up.  She stood at the vanity, dressed in only her robe, loosely braiding her damp hair.  The door creaked open.  Steve’s strong arms slipped around her from behind.  He’d changed into pajama pants, his bare, broad chest pressed to her back.  He linked his hands together over her belly.  She stared at him in the misted mirror as he kissed the spot behind her ear.  Lips soft and tender made their way down the line of her neck to its nape, reverent but teasing, and warm brushes of breath prickled her gooseflesh with desire.  She hummed as he moved the rope of her braided hair away, pulling open the collar of the robe to worship the smooth skin of her shoulder.  “I’m tired of being pregnant,” she murmured, reaching around to tangle her fingers tightly in his hair.  “Really tired.”

“Not much longer,” he murmured into the ball of her shoulder, tugging the expensive silk gently further aside to kiss down her arm.  “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

“Flattery, again?”

“Uh-huh.  Is it workin’?”

She sighed, closing her eyes as his hands swept over her breasts through the thin material.  “I don’t know where you think this is going,” she said, but she couldn’t deny the deeper tone to her voice and the heat pooling in her body.  They hadn’t been intimate in a while, not in the last month or so.  The… _mechanics_ of it were something of a challenge now.  And Steve, who’d always been concerned about his strength getting away from him during sex, was even more worried about inadvertently hurting her (or somehow hurting the twins, even though to her understanding that was pretty much impossible).  Plus it didn’t help that she felt rather chronically unattractive at this point.  There’d been a period not long after their honeymoon where she’d been positively ravenous for him and for sex; she didn’t know if it had been due to her hormones or her happiness, but they’d made love more times in those few weeks than they ever had (and that was saying something).  Now, though…  “Steve.”

“I’ve been doing some reading,” he said huskily.  “Did you know that making love can cause labor?”

“I read that, too.”  His hands roamed down her sides, dancing.  “The consensus is that’s an old wives’ tale.”

“Want to try it out?”  Part of her definitely did.  She missed this.  She missed _him._   But it would probably be nothing but awkward or uncomfortable.  Or both.  He sensed her hesitancy ( _her_ hesitancy about sex – now that was a weird moment in their relationship) and slowed down.  “I can at least make you feel good,” he rumbled against her ear, nipping gently.  “You deserve to feel good, Nat.”

She laughed again.  “Sweet, Rogers.”  She turned, tightening her grip in his hair to kiss him.  She opened her mouth to him, let him claim and take.  When she pulled away, she lifted his wandering hand from her thigh and kissed the faint scar across his palm.  “Go get in bed.  Let me finish up here.”

He actually pouted, and she rolled her eyes and shook her head before lightly pushing him away.  He left her in the sauna that had been their bathroom to finish brushing her teeth, changing into her pajamas, and getting ready for bed.  A few minutes later she made her way into their bedroom to find the lights still on and him sprawled out on his side of the bed, already fast asleep.  He hadn’t even gotten under the covers.  “Seriously?” she moaned in surprise.  She sighed in exasperation, partially irritated but mostly caught up with how he looked, all smooth, flawless skin and hard muscles and _perfection_.  And an absolute ass for turning her on like that and leaving her to suffer with it.  “You owe me,” she muttered, turning the lights off before waddling to the bed.  She tried to yank the duvet out from under the dead weight of his softly snoring body before climbing into bed herself.  Then she settled down, staring into the shadows.  “Goodnight.”

He didn’t answer.

* * *

“Captain Rogers.  Ms. Romanoff.”

_What?_

“Captain Rogers, sir.  Wake up please.  Sir!”

Natasha’s eyes flew open.  Her heart lurched in shock, pounding painfully.  A deep, dreamless slumber disappeared in a rush of horror.  “What?  What?” she gasped into the shadows.

JARVIS’ voice echoed in the silence of their bedroom.  “There is a serious situation occurring in Geneva.  The GSIS4 conference is under attack.”  _The what?_   Her thoughts were so scattered, she couldn’t make sense of that.  Then everything jolted back into place.  The summit.  Leaders from around the world, including the President of the United States.  _Under attack._   “The Avengers need to assemble immediately.  Mr. Stark is already preparing the jet.”

Adrenaline jolted through Natasha.  She reached for the light on the bedside table.  The clock read 3:53 in the morning.  She swallowed down her pulse, turning over and realizing Steve was still asleep, turned away from her.  Apparently during the night he’d burrowed under the duvet.  It was clenched tight around him.  And he was sleeping through this.  He was the lightest sleeper she’d ever known.“Steve,” she gasped, reaching for his shoulder.  She shook it through the duvet.  “Steve, wake up.  Steve!”  He groaned, curling tighter into himself.  “Wake up!”

“What?” he rasped.  “What’sa matter?”

Was that his voice?  Natasha’s heart started thundering again.  She grabbed the duvet and pulled it away.  He immediately started shivering and tried to pull it back, but she got a look at his face.  His flushed face with his jaw clenched and his eyes squeezed shut.  When her fingers brushed against his cheek, she nearly recoiled.

His skin was _burning._

“Captain Rogers,” JARVIS called again more insistently.  “Sir, you need to go.  There is no time.  Whoever has attacked the summit is demanding the Avengers show themselves.  You, Mr. Stark, and Mr. Barton they asked for by name, and they will begin killing hostages in less than thirty minutes unless you heed their summons.  There is not a second to spare.”

That got through to him.  Steve’s eyes popped open and he was half scrambling, half falling out of bed.  He couldn’t bite back a groan, wavering as he stumbled to his feet.  Natasha could only watch, trapped in a horrified stupor, as he snatched his jeans and shirt from the day before where they were draped over the chair near the bathroom.  With no grace, he yanked down his pajama pants and stuffed his legs into his jeans.  He barely had his arms into his shirt before fumbling for his shoes.  JARVIS’ voice turned taut with concern.  “Captain Rogers, are you well?  I am detecting an abnormally high body temperature.  You–”

Steve coughed.  Deeply.  Harshly.  Not a tickle in one’s throat sort of cough.  A vicious, violent thing from deep inside his chest.  And that was only the first.  Suddenly he was choking in a paroxysm of coughing, stuttering for air, scrambling toward the bathroom probably to get water.  He couldn’t breathe.

Neither could Natasha as she jolted out of bed as quickly as she could, chasing after him.  “Steve!”  She burst into the bathroom, nearly knocking the partially ajar door from its hinges.  He was crumpled by the vanity, shaking and struggling for air.  He couldn’t stop coughing.  There was panic in his eyes.  “Steve, oh my God!” she gasped, falling to her knees beside him.

But before she could even touch him, it ended.  He waved her away, getting his breathing under control.  “I’m alright,” he ground out through fast, shallow pants.  He shook his head, rising shakily to his feet and keeping his distance.  “It’s fine.  I’m alright.”

“The hell you are!” she cried, not willing to pretend anymore.  “Steve–”

“I have to go,” he gasped, pushing by her to run back into their bedroom.  “I have to go!”

“No!” she yelled.  She moved with remarkable speed given her condition, clasping his wrist and yanking him to a stop after he took up his shield from where it was propped near the door of their bedroom.  “No.  Something’s seriously wrong.  Something’s wrong with you, with the serum.  Something’s–”

“I know,” he returned with disturbing calm.  “But it has to wait.  I can still fight.  I need to lead the team.”

Was he crazy?  “You can’t be serious!  You can’t do this!”

“Nat, I’m alright,” he returned, and, God help them, he was again.  The fevered flush was already fading from his face, and his eyes were clear and bright and focused on her with nothing but confidence and strength.  He was breathing easily like he hadn’t almost asphyxiated mere seconds ago.  It was almost real, almost believable.  “Whatever’s going on, it’s okay.  When this is over, I’ll go right to Bruce.  And if I feel like I can’t fight, I’ll tap out.  I promise.  But there’s no time now.  I need to go.  I have to lead the team.”

 _No.  No, no, no–_ “You can’t–”

“We can’t let the summit be destroyed,” he said.  And everything else, all the unspoken implications, were clear.  If someone was calling out the Avengers and using the world’s leaders as bait to lure them into an engagement, he _had_ to be there.  It didn’t matter who.  It didn’t matter why.  What was wrong with him _didn’t matter_.  Not when the world needed the Avengers.

That wasn’t enough for her.  “Steve–”

“Stay here.”  He swept her close, close enough that she could still feel the heat from his skin and feel his muscles _tremor_.  He bent to kiss her, but he stopped himself, stopped and pulled away and coughed violently into his hand.  Then he ran, and she was almost too stunned and terrified to notice that his palm was flecked with red.  And she could almost feel that kiss, almost imagine his mouth on hers, and somehow when she did, she felt like she was tasting blood.


	5. Chapter 5

Natasha didn’t stay there.  She _ran_.

She ran into the closet to throw on some clothes.  She ran out of their suite and down the corridor to the elevator.  She ran as fast as she could, her heart pounding and her breath short and fast, her arms wrapped around her stomach like that could ease the discomfort and strain.  The serum was alive inside her; it always felt like this when she needed it to, a warm rush of power and strength.  It permeated her muscles, easing their fatigue.  It filled her lungs, helping her breathe deeper and more fully.  It steadied her heart.  She needed that most of all, now more than ever before.

Breathless, she leaned against the wall of the elevator slightly.  “JARVIS, where are they?”

JARVIS was clearly reluctant to answer her.  “I feel I should remind you to rest.  You are close to the end of your pregnancy and any undue stress could–”

“JARVIS!” she barked, eyes flashing.

The AI hesitated only a moment more before conceding.  “The quinjet has already taken off.  You cannot stop it.”  That was irrelevant.  As much as she wanted to, wanted to find some way to reach the jet and demand Steve _not do this_ , she knew she shouldn’t.  She couldn’t.  Whatever was wrong with Steve, he was unfortunately right.  If the summit was in danger because of the Avengers, then the Avengers needed to answer that threat.  This was vital, considering what the summit had gathered to discuss.  The Avengers as earth’s first line of defense.  The Avengers causing the very situations from which the world needed their protection.  The Avengers as the good guys, rather than the bad.  The team needed to do well here, of course for the sake of the world and its leaders but also for its own preservation.  Surely the terrorists who’d taken the summit hostage had done so very purposefully.  And surely them calling out Tony and Steve was very purposefully as well.  The two leaders of the team, summoned to a hellish nightmare of a hostage situation.  Even if they succeeded here, it would still make some sort of point to the world that the Avengers were the problem, not the solution.

But why Clint?  Of all the Avengers, Clint was the most unknown, or at least he had been before the files from SHIELD had been dumped onto the internet.  Even with that, though, Clint was rarely filmed, rarely photographed, because he was typically aloft, perched somewhere with his eye on the entire battlefield and his bow raining down fire on their enemies.  Why would they want him?  Something about this felt wrong, and Natasha’s heart pounded harder and faster.  “Then take me to the command center.”  Again, JARVIS hesitated.  Her patience was wearing thin, extremely so.  “JARVIS,” she prompted sternly.

“Yes, Ms. Romanoff.”

The elevator started to ascend, and Natasha closed her eyes.  Some of her hair had come loose of its braid.  Her hands shook as she undid the rope, gathered the sleep-mussed mess, and raked her fingers through it to comb out some of the tangles.  Then she swept it all into a loose pony tail.  It was all just a nervous action, something to _do_ while she waited.  She drew a deep breath.  “Is Doctor Banner awake?”

“Yes,” JARVIS answered.  “He is on his way to the command center.”

 _Thank God._   The idea of having Bruce there eased her somewhat.  It wasn’t much, a tiny speck of comfort in a sea of roiling uncertainty, but Bruce would know what to do if Steve was sick.  He’d know how to fix the serum if there was something wrong with it.  The team would get through this, put down the threat, contain the situation.  They’d come home, and Bruce would look Steve over, figure out what the problem was…  Find a way to make it better.  Steve would be fine.  He’d be fine.

She was so caught up in feverishly trying to convince herself of that that she hardly noticed when the elevator stopped flying to the top of the Tower and the doors swished open.  She jerked out of her desperate dream, nearly stumbling as an ill-timed contraction surprised her and left her gasping against the doorframe.  This one hurt quite a bit more than was comfortable.  JARVIS kept the doors opened so they wouldn’t crush her as she breathed her way through it.  “Ms. Romanoff,” he began again.  There was nothing but sadness and concern in his voice.  “You must not exert yourself.”

She refused to even consider the possibility of triggering labor or anything else, glaring up at the ceiling as if JARVIS was right there to see it.  Huffing, she pushed herself forward and strolled defiantly down the shadowy corridor to the command center.

Hill was already there, alone in the massive room.  Only the main area with its slew of monitors and holographic feeds was lit.  The conference table adorned with the Avengers logo was empty, shining dully in the dim illumination.  Natasha passed it, heading straight to where Hill was sitting at the main console.  “What’s happening?” she demanded.

Maria hardly turned to face her.  Somehow, for it being the middle of the night, she still looked impeccable.  Her glossy black hair was drawn into a nice bun.  Her make-up was nicely applied.  Even the jeans and sweater she wore were clean and pressed and clearly not just yanked out of a closet and thrown on in a hurry.  Hill had been Deputy Director of SHIELD for a reason.  She was never caught unawares, never left floundering for control.  She was trained to maintain control, even the illusion of control, at all times.  And right now, Natasha was wholly appreciative of it, even if she felt completely unkempt (and even more disheveled and terrified) as she came closer.  “They’re on their way there.”

Natasha squinted, trying to get her brain in gear, as she looked at the images all over the screens and displays.  In Geneva, it was ten o’clock in the morning, and the day was bright, pretty, and crisp.  Therefore, the sight of dozens of men dressed in black combat gear wielding weapons as they charged the United Nations building was rather distressing.

But not as much as what they were using to launch their attack.

She gritted her teeth in anger.  Three – no _six_ – SHIELD quinjets were hovering around the building.  They were armed to the teeth, miniguns lowered and whirring, firing on the hundreds of people in the surrounding streets and areas who had gathered to protest or support the morning’s summit.  Police cars were being torn to shreds by the weapons, and innocent civilians were fleeing in panic.  The chaotic images were streaming from cellphones and from the media that had already assembled to cover the conference.  It was hysteria, and Natasha couldn’t stop looking at the SHIELD emblem, the eagle she’d once associated with doing good and right in this world, as it shone hideously in the morning sun.

Hill tipped her head, her expression stoic and her voice placid.  “I guess we know what happened to those jets we couldn’t locate,” she commented unhappily.  Still, the glimmer of dread in her eyes was telling.  “Stark, what’s your ETA?”

“Seven minutes!” Tony returned, his image tucked into the lower right corner of the main display.  He looked composed, but Natasha knew him well enough to see he was rattled.  “Going as fast I can here.”  The map of the Atlantic to the left of the monitors showed the Avengers quinjet screaming across the ocean.  It could fly considerably faster than any military aircraft, as fast as Iron Man.  Still, seven minutes seemed like an eternity given how fast the situation was degrading.  “In the meantime, any idea what we’re dealing with?”

Maria tipped her head, trying to make sense of this and struggling to find the wherewithal to accept it.  “SHIELD.”

“What?”  The others in the background came closer.  Thor and Sam.  Clint.  _Steve._   Natasha couldn’t see him clearly.

“Whoever it is, they have SHIELD tech,” Maria tightly declared, “and a great deal of it.”  After SHIELD had collapsed, Hill and Stark had done their absolute best to locate SHIELD resources and acquire them or neutralize them if securing them wasn’t possible.  It had been a monumental task, given SHIELD’s global reach.  To think they’d gotten it all had been foolhardy at best.  “Six quinjets.  And Chitauri weaponry.”

Natasha bit the inside of her lower lip, watching the soldiers on the screen as they fired the alien guns into the crowd.  Chitauri weaponry had appeared sporadically on the Black Market, but not in this quantity.  These bastards had probably been among those who’d raided the Fridge after the battle over the Potomac.  _Not good._

“Well, fuck,” Tony muttered.

“Where are the hostages?”  Steve had come closer.  He’d changed into his uniform, his shield on his back.  Natasha found she couldn’t breathe as she watched him, searching his face for signs that he wasn’t well.  She didn’t see any.  Maybe a smattering of sweat along his hairline.  Maybe a slightly unhealthy glaze to his eyes.  Maybe.  It could have just been a trick of the light.  She couldn’t be sure.

Hill looked uncharacteristically helpless.  “Inside the building.  Guys, I don’t need to tell you, but not one of them can be lost.  You need to do well today.”

“What about the ringleader?” Tony asked.

An image of a man appeared on another display.  JARVIS also sent the data to the quinjet without instruction.  It was the best shot they had of the commander of the terrorists, caught by one of the news camera crews.  He was yelling over the din of his men terrorizing the people outside, demanding that Captain America, Iron Man, and Hawkeye appear or he would begin executing the assembled world leaders trapped inside the building.   JARVIS was running his face through countless recognition algorithms, combing the internet and SHIELD’s massive databases as well as the newly developed databases of the Avengers to try and locate a match.  So far, there was nothing.  The man was older, middle-aged, with shaggy pale blond hair and dark eyes.  He, too, wore a black combat suit that was mostly leather.  A sword was on his back and another scabbard hung from his waist.  His face was fierce, hawkish with prominent cheek bones and a narrow jaw.  It was etched with scars, and he was unshaven.  Natasha didn’t recognize him at all.

Steve did, though.  His face went lax.  “I know this guy,” he said, confused and surprised.

Clint was taut and dark.  Completely so.  His expression gathered into a troubled glower.  “So do I.”

The group turned to him.  The way he said that spoke of something very deep and dangerous.  Natasha couldn’t see Clint very well, but she felt a shudder tickle its way up from the base of her back.  She understood that tone all too well, that _feeling_ that she heard seeping into Clint’s voice and eyes and heart.  Clint knew this man, knew him from _before_.  His past.  “Jacques Duquesne.”

Nobody answered that for a moment.  Then Sam shook his head.  “I don’t follow.  Is that supposed to mean something to us?”

Clint set his jaw, increasingly disturbed.  “Swordsman.”

Whoever that was, he was obviously someone seriously dangerous if the timber of Clint’s voice and his tense form was any indication.  Steve looked to him.  “This guy was in Moscow, when HYDRA was hiring thugs to get the insanity serum into the US.”

Hill glanced back at Natasha.  Clearly she’d forgotten all about that as well.  Natasha shook her head helplessly.  “This man is HYDRA?” Thor asked, seeking some sort of confirmation as to with whom or what they were dealing.

Clint didn’t answer.  His glare was fixated ahead, presumably on the image of Duquesne.  Natasha’s stomach clenched in dismay, but all she could do was tighten her hold around the pregnant swell of the twins and hope that he was okay.  She’d never seen him like this.  Never in the five years she’d been his partner and the two years since then.  _Never._

Tony shook his head.  “Doesn’t matter.  We need to take him down before this shit storm gets any worse.  ETA: five minutes.”  He sighed shortly, aggravated and worried.  Natasha knew why.  Hostage situations were difficult, to say the least.  She’d dealt with a few in her time with SHIELD, and those missions were always tense and haunting.  The potential for civilian casualties in this case was extremely high.  There were hundreds of people outside the UN building in addition to the likely hundreds more inside, the world’s leaders included.  Presidents and prime ministers and ambassadors.  Politicians and diplomats.  If this Swordsman character murdered them, the blow dealt to people and nations all across the globe would be devastating.  This was a disaster literally unfolding before them, and simply exterminating the terrorists wasn’t going to be good enough.  “I hope you have a plan, Cap.”

Steve didn’t answer.  Natasha’s gaze shot to the darker area behind Tony where Steve was standing.  She couldn’t breathe again.  She couldn’t see if he was okay.  Was he okay?  “Cap?” Tony prompted, concern coloring his tone.

Steve seemed to snap out of it, whatever it was.  Trying to formulate a strategy to deal with this situation.  Or suffering through another attack.  Natasha couldn’t tell which.  She wanted to scream.  “Get on the ground and get the people out,” he said roughly.  His voice was not _his_ voice again.  Strained with something.  “Are there any sign of explosives in the building?”

Maria shook her head.  “Negative, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t.”

“Any idea on how many hostiles?”

“Dozens.  At least fifty.  These people aren’t messing around.”

“Support?”

“Swiss Armed Services, but they’re not there yet and won’t be for another fifteen minutes.  You can see how well local law enforcement is dealing with this.”

“Is there any other way into the building?”

“A back entrance,” Hill said.  JARVIS sent a map of the complex and its surrounding streets to the quinjet.  “There’s likely to be resistance.”

Steve’s jaw clenched.  This was clearer to Natasha, and she thought it looked like he was in pain.  _Somebody stop him._   _Please, somebody stop him!_ She couldn’t say anything.  She couldn’t.  Not now.  “Thor, Tony, deal with the jets.  Keep them busy and away from the crowds.  If you drop them, make sure the people are clear.”

“Think I have something to help with that,” Tony said softly but matter-of-factly.

Steve didn’t seem to hear him.  “Sam and I will try to cut through to the back.  Hopefully we can get in with some element of surprise while you guys keep them occupied and free the hostages.”

“There is no cover.  The terrain is open.  They will see you coming,” Thor warned.

“No, they won’t,” Clint returned, dark but determined.  “Can I fly this thing?”

The next couple of minutes were filled with a flurry of activity aboard the quinjet.  Tony and Clint traded places, Tony explaining things and offering up piloting advice that Clint was brushing aside.  The rest of the team geared up.  Natasha watched in horror as they did, watched as Steve slid his shield onto his back and strapped his helmet on.  Sam was right with him, clasping his shoulder once and leaning in close to say something.  Could he see that something was wrong?  She hoped so.  She was praying that Sam would stop this, that he would look out for Steve like he always did and demand their captain sit out this fight, but he just moved away, preparing his own suit and guns.  And Thor did the same, his hand firm around the pommel of Mjölnir, his face set into a tense, expectant frown.  Didn’t _any_ of them see that their captain wasn’t well?

Maybe they weren’t seeing a problem there wasn’t one to see.  Maybe he _was_ well, and she was letting her anxieties get the better of her.

God, she hoped so.

Even so, she could hardly make herself watch as they prepared for battle.  She had seen this dozens of times over the last few months, and every time she’d battled with this alien, unwieldy sense of frustration and helplessness.  She’d gotten used to it, but this time it was unbearable.  She was so consumed with standing still, keeping herself calm, and not betraying just how difficult it was to do so that she hardly noticed Bruce arriving.

He looked significantly more unkempt, his hair completely askew, his Oxford shirt rumpled and hastily buttoned.  He was rubbing sleep from his eyes.  “What’s going on?  JARVIS said something about the summit getting attacked?”

The quinjet was nearly there.  There wasn’t much time.  “JARVIS, can you track Captain Rogers’ vitals?”  If she’d managed to keep how flustered and frightened she was hidden before, the cat was definitely out of the bag now with that odd request.

Hill turned suddenly, abandoning the team to its final preparations to stare at Natasha, a tad bewildered.  And Bruce seemed to snap fully to complete awareness.  “What?”

Natasha didn’t think she had it within her to explain.  “JARVIS,” she said again.

“I cannot detect Captain Rogers’ vitals unless he is within line of sight of Iron Man,” JARVIS replied apologetically, as if he thought he was somehow failing her.  “I will do my best.”

That was all he could do.  It wasn’t enough.  On the screen, the quinjet was descending, the light of the day washing through the cockpit more and more as the plane emerged from the clouds.  Clint was capably guiding them lower, streaking toward the city.  Over comms, the team was talking.  Tense voices.  Steve’s orders.  The others responding with affirmations.  Tony had obviously donned his armor because the screen beside the main display where the video feed of the HUD typically was had come to life.  And the first thing Iron Man scanned happened to be Steve where he was readying something in the back of the jet, Sam right at his side.  As promised, Steve’s vital signs flooded the display.

Everything was absolutely normal.  Heart rate.  Respiration rate.  Temperature.  From what Iron Man’s sensors could detect, Steve was perfectly fine.  Healthy and strong and resilient as ever.  Natasha let loose what started out as a short, quivering breath but quickly changed into a long, gusty sigh of shivering relief.  “Natasha,” Bruce said in concern, “what’s going on here?”  His worry was very clearly for her, rather than for Steve, and that compounded her relief until she was nearly embarrassed to have been so terrified.

She shook her head, reaching into the holographic display and brushing the readout that was monitoring Steve’s vital signs aside so that it was minimized.  “Nothing.  It’s nothing.  Nothing serious.”  _Steve’s fine.  He’s fine.  Everything’s the way it should be.  He’s alright._

Bruce didn’t seem convinced, but he didn’t get a chance to say anything more.  Tony was shouting something about activating a switch in Steve’s new gloves – _Stark made him new gloves?_ – and Steve was answering that he understood.  Clint yelled from the cockpit about getting ready, flipping switches right in front of the camera.  The jet was swinging low over the city, turning sharply over homes and buildings and busy streets.  A second more and the rear of the UN complex was perhaps half a mile ahead.  “Go, Cap!”

The bottom of the jet opened up, and both Sam and Steve disappeared.  Natasha’s gut clenched in irrational fear for a moment, but then the plane’s exterior cameras caught them.  They were on the street beneath the quinjet, Steve driving a sleek, black motorcycle trimmed in red, Sam hanging on behind him.  Clint pulled back quickly on the yolk of the jet, rapidly climbing up and away from the street, and Sam jumped off the back of the bike, wings expanding.  He flew low, right over the tops of the buildings, heading to the rear of the UN complex.  The city fell away into open gardens and lawns that were brown with the first thaw of spring.  They lost sight of both Steve and Sam as they zoomed toward the UN building.

Flags were limp and bathed in smoke as Clint brought the plane around.  Everywhere people were running, screaming, but the SHIELD quinjets were keeping them corralled in the area, dragging out the awful situation.  Natasha could see Clint grind his teeth as the other jets noticed their approach.  However, aside from turning and training their guns on the Avengers, the enemy aircraft did nothing.

The Swordsman was at the entrance to the building, past the elegant walk lined with flags.  Quite a few news cameras were filming the unfolding nightmare, so Natasha, Bruce, and Maria had their pick of which angle they wanted to see.  This was a spectacle, pure and simple, and obviously this Duquesne character wanted it that way.

And obviously this was personal.  Clint flipped a switch to send the jet’s audio feed external.  “You wanted the Avengers,” he said tightly, “so here we are.  Let these people go.”

Duquesne smiled.  It was a small, humorless thing, more vindictive and satisfied than amused.  “Barton,” he said, stepping down from the entrance of the building into its spacious courtyard.  The soldiers around him pressed closer, flanking him protectively and aiming their weapons at the Avengers.  “Nice of you to come.  Knew you would if I pressed the right button.”

“Let these people go,” Clint said again.  There was nothing but a warning in his voice.

“Usually it’s Captain America who gets up in front of the bad guys to tell us how wrong and evil we are,” Duquesne returned.  His voice had a strange accent to it.  Natasha couldn’t place it.  “Where is he?  Huh?  Hiding his face in embarrassment that the mere existence of the Avengers is causing yet another disaster like this?  Or is he letting you have a shot at being the leader this time?  At feeling like you’re a hero?  Pathetic.  We both know you’re not.”  He gave a crooked, deprecating smile.  “You’re a murderer, Barton, same as me.  And Stark.  Stark’s nothing more than flaky mouthpiece and so weak that he has to hide himself behind armor even to be able to feel like a man.”

“Fuck you,” Tony muttered over comms.

“And dear lady Romanoff.  Has the little spider gone into hiding after being stripped of her secrets?  Where’s she been?”  Natasha balled her hands into her fists at her sides.  “Doesn’t matter.  You’re all liars.  Pretending to be good when you’re nothing but bad.  These pompous idiots want to sit around here and debate whether the Avengers are the answer?  Fools, the whole damn lot of them.”

The Avengers’ quinjet swung to the side, and cannons descended from its belly.  “Shut up,” Clint snapped.  “If you want me, you come and get me.  This doesn’t have to involve anyone else.”

Natasha watched, burdened by the awful sensation of her heart sinking into the pit of her stomach.  Personal didn’t quite begin to describe this.  The vitriol in Clint’s voice…  She’d rarely heard him talk like that to anyone.  And Duquesne was glaring murderously.  Absolutely wrathfully.  Whatever history there was between them, it was clearly deep and disturbing.  “This isn’t just about you and me, although you’ll get what you deserve.  I promise you that.”

“Who the hell is this guy?” Maria whispered, perturbed and looking to Natasha for answers.

Natasha had none to give, and there was no time for them at any rate.   “But my aspirations are a little bigger than the fight you owe me.  It’s time for you to pay for what you’ve done.  And it’s time for the world to see the Avengers fail.  _Heroes._   Let’s see them call you heroes when we blow this place of peace to hell!”  The soldiers around him abruptly started firing their weapons.  Bullets rained over the crowd, and bolts of energy from the Chitauri guns dug ruts into the roads and lawns.  People shrieked and scattered.

The team moved fast.  The rear of the jet lowered rapidly, and Thor and Tony shot out of it.  Thor landed on the ground with an earth-rattling thud, lifting Mjölnir to the sky and summoning strikes of lightning.  Those he flung at the soldiers firing into the crowds.  A few went down, but the rest focused their attacks on him.  He blocked a couple of the strikes, but a blast from a Chitauri gun smashed into his chest.  The second he spent reeling was costly, and the quinjets converged, guns blazing.

“They’ve outfitted the jets with better guns,” Maria announced with dismay.  Missiles shot from the SHIELD aircraft, missiles more powerful than SHIELD had used.  They drove into the ground around Thor with painfully loud bangs and waves of fire.  The chaos was incredible, overwhelming, ear-piercing screams and crackling gunfire.  Cameras and phones were dropped, and soon it was only Tony’s HUD and the cameras aboard the jet that were providing decent feeds.  “Stark!”

“I see it!”  One of the SHIELD jets had rotated toward the building, launching another series of missiles at it.  The first one hit, thankfully detonating only at the base of the building and mostly creating a crater in the ground rather than damaging the structure itself.  The next Tony rammed from the side, a blur of red and gold, driving the projectile off course.  It exploded a second after the impact, sending Iron Man careening into the ground.  Natasha’s heart lurched as the HUD filled with warnings.  “JARVIS!  Jesus!” Tony cried.

“Damage at 35%,” JARVIS responded.  “I would highly recommend you not do that again.”  Tony’s gauntlets appeared in the HUD as he raised his palm repulsors, firing at the SHIELD quinjet coming at him.  He struggled back to his feet before activating the jets in his boots, zooming back into the sky to avoid the spray of gunfire chasing him.

“We need to drop these birds!” Tony shouted.

Thor roared, jumping nearly thirty feet into the air to grab onto a lowered minigun attached to the belly of one of the jets.  He ripped it clean off, and the pilot banked wildly, trying to dislodge the demigod.  Bullets peppered one of the wings as it tried to escape, bullets from the Avengers quinjet as Clint shot at it.  “Bring him down!” Duquesne yelled, gesturing wildly with one of his swords at Barton in the cockpit.  Natasha could barely see him in the smoke.  _“Bring him down!”_

Clint went higher, drawing three of the quinjets with him.  Iron Man went after him, repulsor blasts cutting through the morning as he tried to pick them off.  The minute he left, though, the remaining jets turned their attention back toward destroying the crowd and destroying the building.  “We need reinforcements!” Thor cried, slamming his hammer up into the belly of the jet he was assaulting earlier.  That did enough damage to drop it.  The demigod barely got out from under it in time as it crashed down into the grass.  He turned, a tad winded.  Again, it was a split second before he moved fast enough to snatch a few people in the line of some wayward fire, flying away and carrying them to safety.  The pandemonium of having hundreds of civilians trapped in this brawl was becoming unbearable.  Unmanageable.  They were floundering to protect them.  “These people will be slaughtered!”

“The Iron Legion is already inbound!” Stark shouted.

Natasha shook her head, not sure whether to be relieved or afraid.  She wasn’t the only one.  “What the hell is the Iron Legion?” Steve demanded.

Bruce stepped up beside her, his face locked into a wince.  “Beta-testing in the field again,” he mumbled.

“Stark, what’s the Iron Legion?” Steve asked again, his voice harder with impatience.

“It’s help, like I said!” Tony snapped.  He was working hard to keep the quinjets off of Clint as the archer tried to eliminate the soldiers tormenting the crowd.  So far, casualties were at a minimum, but the longer this went on, the less likely it would stay that way.  “Cap, what’s your status?”

“Almost there!” Steve returned.  Iron Man turned, and from his height the motorcycle was hardly anything more than a streak of black along the roads behind the UN building.  Falcon was with Steve, keeping low and quiet.  “Keep them off us!”

“Trying!”  Another of the quinjets abandoned Clint, returning to guard the building.  Tony dove after it, launching a flurry of missiles at the jet.  They hit and pushed it further to the left until it was tipping completely as its port rotor exploded.  It careened right toward a crowd of people.

In a blur of red, Thor was there, catching the flaming wreck.  He staggered under it, crumpling and nearly collapsing.  Tony swore over comms again, leaving Clint alone with the other jets to rush down to Thor’s side.  “Christ,” he moaned, trying to bear some of the weight while gesturing that the people run.  The weight was crushing.  “Get out of the way!  _Get out of the way!_ ”  The people tried to flee, but the remainder of the men on the ground unloaded their weapons on the crowd.

The Avengers quinjet swung low again, the sound of its engines deafening even over the audio feed.  The HUD blurred as Tony whipped around, spotting Clint firing at the soldiers.  They fell in a line, cut down by jet’s powerful weapons.  Then Clint flew higher again, barely avoiding a massive blast from a Chitauri cannon and engaging in a ridiculous and incredible aerial dogfight right over the UN building.  Seeing the people were safe, Thor tossed the wreckage aside before rushing back into the fray.

“Shit!  Steve, what are you doing?”  At Sam’s sharp, worried cry, Natasha quickly scanned over the various video feeds.  _Where is he?  Where?  Where?_

There.  Iron Man was aloft again, and he got a view of Steve.  He was right behind the UN building now, screaming down the road.  Apparently during the harried moments before, two of the quinjets had realized an attack was coming from the rear and had scrambled to reinforce that location.  Sam had one after him, Falcon’s wings glittering in the morning light as he jetted straight upward.  Sam had far more maneuverability than the jets; the battle over the Potomac had taught them all just how fast and agile he was in the air.  The jet struggled to make the climb, shooting wildly.  “I’ll come back around!” Sam swore, clearly intending to get the attention of the other jet, which had lowered itself to block Steve’s advance.

“Negative,” Steve returned.  “I’ve got this!”

A spray of bullets struck the back of Iron Man, the impacts registering on the HUD.  Then a missile hit him.  Natasha’s heart leapt into her throat as their connection to the video feed faltered, winking nauseatingly for a second before recovering.  Tony was letting loose a string of expletives foul enough to make a sailor blush as he righted himself.  He turned around to fire his repulsors at the thugs on the ground, one of whom was reloading an RPG launcher.  _Turn back,_ Natasha silently implored.  She couldn’t _ask_ him to do that, but she needed to see Steve, needed to see if he was alright, needed to _know_ –

Thank God he turned back.  And he did just in time to see Steve weaving back and forth on the bike, avoiding a spray of gunfire from the quinjet’s minigun.  The shots ripped into the street, tearing into the asphalt and concrete, destroying parked cars and barren trees and bushes.  Steve was charging the quinjet like this was some crazy game of chicken, boldly gunning the bike faster despite the barrage of deadly bullets all around him.  Natasha shook her head, horrified and amazed all at once (although her horror was getting stronger, and it wasn’t just because the twins were doing somersaults inside her as if they’d picked up on her anxiety).  _What in the world are you doing?_   Then it became obvious _exactly_ what he was doing.  He reached behind, grabbing his shield from his back and slinging it forward in a perfect, spinning arc.  It slammed into the right rotor of the quinjet and dug in deep, which immediately destabilized it.  “Rogers,” she whispered.  Not that he could hear her.  And not that he would stop.  “Don’t you dare…”

He did precisely what she feared he was going to do.  He hit the brakes on the motorcycle at the last second imaginable, launching himself up and forward.  Planting his hands firmly on the windshield of the jet, he flipped gracefully over the top.  His boots struck near the damaged rotor, and when he yanked his shield loose of the metal, the quinjet tipped wildly.  Natasha’s heart stopped beating for the next moment while her husband was nearly pitched from the aircraft as it rolled out of control.  He slammed the edge of his shield down into the tip of the wing, however, and kept himself from falling.  In an impressive feat of upper body strength, he threw himself up and onto the jet once more as the panicked pilots fought to right it.  It was spinning quickly, heavy smoke obscuring their already poor view of the scene, but she caught a glimpse of the star of Steve’s shield as he threw it again.  It slammed into the housing for the jet’s two rear engines, slicing into the left before gouging the casing of the right.  Sensitive machinery was ripped to shreds.  Steve was already running as the aircraft descended.  Two huge strides ended in a mighty jump.  He caught his shield during the acrobatic somersault, curling and then extending the long lines of his body to land on the other side of the jet as it crashed in a flaming heap onto the road.  He stood there, not even winded, watching it like he was making sure it wouldn’t rise again.  It wouldn’t.

Tony stopped dead in the air.  He’d been flying closer, probably to help, but it wasn’t necessary.  “Okay,” he said, a little surprised.  “Cap’s got it.”

“Damn straight,” Sam said, making no effort to hide his pride (or relief).  Natasha could barely hide hers, either.  It never ceased to amaze her what Steve could do with just a shield.  The other Avengers lived and died via their strength and skill with their weapons, with their tech and guns and bows and hammers.  She did, too.  But Steve accomplished so much with only a shield and the strength and skill of his body.  It was impressive.

God, she was _furious_ with him.

“Eyes on the game,” Steve reminded, all business.  He was already fighting his way through the few guards that were blocking the back exit, cutting them down like they were nothing.  Natasha glanced worriedly at Steve’s vitals, still minimized in the lower left corner of the display closest to her.  They were fine.  Well within normal ranges (which were extraordinary ranges for anyone else).  Maybe all her fears were truly groundless.  Whatever had happened before wasn’t serious.  He was _fine_.  “I’m going in to bring the hostages out.  I’ll need cover.”

“Let me come with you,” Sam said, but that idea was dashed the second he had it.  The quinjet pursuing him landed a lucky shot, damaging his right wing, and he went hard down into the yard amidst a screaming crowd of people.

“Sam!  Sam!” Steve cried.

“I see him!” Tony replied.  And Natasha lost her view of Steve as Iron Man jetted back into the massive brawl on the building’s front lawn.  The police and local military had gotten bolder, engaging with the terrorists openly.  Every muscle in her body felt rigid with fear.  The twins rolled again, restless and seemingly riddled with terror as well.  _Easy,_ she thought, desperate to calm them (and herself).  _Easy.  Easy._   Tony spun in the air, dodging as blasts from Chitauri guns detonated around him.  “Hawkeye, get these fuckers off!”

“Trying!”

Tony landed beside Wilson with a clank and a thud.  “Sam took a hit,” he announced, the HUD filling with read-outs of Sam’s vitals.  Bruce stepped closer, his keen eyes devouring the display.  Natasha could tell immediately the wound wasn’t terribly serious, but it was likely debilitating.  The other man’s face was scrunched up in pain, and blood was flowing freely from his right calf.  “Medical?”

“Three hundred yards northwest,” Maria responded.

A flurry of desperate conversation followed.  “Thor, drop that last bird!”

“I’m gonna set down.  Get him to the jet.”

“You’re alright, Sam.  Take it easy.”

“I know I’m alright.  Hurts like a bitch, but I can still fight.”

“Like hell you can.  And you don’t need to.  We have this.”

“What’s the status on Sam?”

“Extracting him.  Whoa!  Someone take out that guy with the cannon!”

“We must secure this area!”

“Ms. Hill, there is a proximity alert.”  That was JARVIS, and though his voice was as calm and emotionless as ever, somehow he sounded distressed.  The statement was so out of the blue that none of them really processed it for a moment.  Then an alarm began wailing, and the displays that had been filled with scenes from the battle flashed red and changed to a darkened view of New York City.  The darkened view from _outside_ the Tower.  Natasha squinted, turning from the displays to look out the windows that encircled the command center.  In the heavy night, it was difficult to tell what the problem was.  Everything was blanketed in black, and between the backdrop of the city’s lights and the light coating of rain on the glass, it was harder to see what was coming.

But then she saw.

 _“Get down!”_ Maria cried, reaching for Natasha.  She grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her roughly to the floor.  Natasha didn’t resist – didn’t have the mind to, not with the shock coursing over her – but she wrapped her arms around her stomach and allowed herself to be dragged lower and closer to the console.  The telltale thunder of automatic gunfire echoed through the night, and the windows on the left side of the room shattered.

Bullets tore the command center apart.  The noise was positively unbearable, an endless, discordant symphony of things being punctured and broken and smashed.  The lights flashed and then failed.  Something warm and sturdy collapsed against her back, enfolding her tightly in a protective embrace.  _Bruce._   And Maria was doing the same in front of her, practically trapping her between them and shielding her body.  Angling her stomach away from the gunfire slamming into the room.  Guarding her, pressing her down to floor and against the console.  Helpless and furious, she closed her eyes.  It seemed to go on forever.

When it did end, nobody moved for a long moment.  Harsh breaths and pounding hearts.  Bruce slowly leaned back.  “Are you okay?  Natasha?”  She tried to shrug them off and stand.  A contraction came, a hard one, and she ended up withering onto the floor.  “Natasha!”

“I’m fine,” she gasped.  She rode it out, wincing but _ignoring_ it and pushing herself back up.  “I’m fine!  What–”

Flood lights blasted the room, illuminating the debris, and the three of them tucked themselves down behind the console again, fearing another deadly assault.  Nothing came, though.  Nothing aside from a gruff voice over a loud speaker.  “Avengers!”  Natasha peeked from above Bruce’s arm.  “You attack us, and we will strike back!  Forever!  You will fall!”

“No chance in hell,” Maria snarled.  She’d drawn a gun from her jeans sometime during all of this.

The aircraft outside lingered a moment more.  It could have destroyed them; they were fairly helpless, cowering as they were behind the mangled control console.  But it didn’t.  The sound of engines powering up was loud and familiar.  Another SHIELD quinjet.  The blinding light vanished as the plane rose higher.  A breath later, the Tower shuddered again from some sort of detonation above them, glass and debris showering over them with the impact of what felt like a missile.  Then two blobs of light streaked away, speeding across the night sky and leaving them reeling.

Well, Natasha was reeling.  Bruce was still practically smothering her, but Maria was on her feet the moment the jet was gone.  “Romanoff, are you hurt?” she harshly demanded.  She was bleeding from a few cuts on her face, likely from glass, but she was otherwise okay.

Bruce was reluctant to let her go.  He wasn’t harmed.  His eyes, though, seemed tinged with green, but Natasha could hardly process what that meant.  She could practically _hear_ his heart racing dangerously quickly, practically see him struggling to control himself.  His hand fell to her stomach, and she flinched despite herself.  “Natasha.  Are you alright?”

Anger at her own stupor jerked her right out of it.  “Fine,” she snapped.  “Get them back!  Get the team back!”

Maria pressed her fingers into her ear.  “Stark.  Rogers.  Come in.”  The equipment, the displays, the holographic terminals…  All of it was destroyed.  “Avengers.  The Tower’s been attacked.  The command center is down.  We are in the blind.  Do you copy?”  There was no answer.  “Barton!  Thor!  Does anyone copy?”  Maria frowned, picking up and then dropping a damaged StarkPad.  “Damn it!  JARVIS!”

They might have lost contact with the team, but JARVIS was still online.  “The Tower’s communications array has been destroyed.”  That was obviously what the explosion at the top of the building had been.  “I am trying to reestablish the connection, but I suspect it will be a two or three minutes to reroute the signals through auxiliary systems.  Take cover deeper inside the Tower.  The quinjet appears to be fleeing the scene, but I cannot track it.  The satellite feeds have also been interrupted.”

“Damn it,” Maria swore again.  She ran from the room, yelling at JARVIS to secure the building, to get the systems back online, to get the Avengers’ support structure _functioning_ again.  “Did the Iron Legion make it there?  Do you still have control of them?”

“Yes, Ms. Hill, but with the satellite uplink damaged, I–”

Natasha moved to follow her, but Bruce’s fingers were tight on her arm, holding her back.  “I want you down in the infirmary.”

“No,” Natasha returned, wavering on her feet for a moment before regaining her balance and pulling away.

Bruce’s expression was loaded with concern.  Dismay.  _Frustration._   “Natasha–”

“No,” she snapped firmly, whirling on him with fiery eyes.  “No.”  She could practically _see_ him struggling with his temper.  And she knew why.  Her health and the health of the twins was his responsibility.  But she wasn’t going to be dissuaded or stopped.  Not now.  Not when her husband was out there in danger and _she_ _couldn’t see him._

She was running again, running as fast as she could.  She joined Maria out in the corridor.  “Get our eyes and ears back,” she ordered.

Maria nodded.  “Let’s pray they have this under control.”

* * *

Steve didn’t think they had this entirely under control.  Actually, he was pretty damn sure they didn’t.  The situation outside appeared to be fairly stable.  It sounded like Tony’s Iron Legion had arrived, and between that, Thor, and the local authorities, people were being evacuated and escorted to safety.  Sam was hurt, but Clint had landed the Avengers quinjet and he and Stark were quickly tending to the injury.  The enemy jets had been grounded or otherwise destroyed; Thor had brought down the final one.  The worst of the threat outside the building seemed to be over.

Inside, however, it was complete madness.  There were dozens of terrorists inside, trying to keep the hundreds of terrified, panicked people under control.  On top of that, those assailants that had survived the Avengers’ attack were falling back inside the relative safety of the building.  Steve had no idea what they were dealing with or where he was going.  Communications with Hill back at the Tower had been disrupted somehow.  That made worry spike through him, harsh and unrelenting, but he shoved it aside.  There was nothing he could do from here, and he couldn’t abandon this situation simply because he was concerned.  Surely they were all fine.  Natasha was _fine._

Frankly, he was more certain about her health than he was about his own.  Whatever was wrong with him was coming in very unpredictable waves.  One moment he felt completely well, at the top of his game, his body totally in tune with his mind and perfectly functioning.  Then, without warning, he was suffering with dizziness and pain strong enough that it nearly dropped him.  His muscles went weak, his heart shaking in his chest, his skin bathed in sticky, cold sweat.  _Something_ was wrong.  There was no denying it.  He’d been distracted by the desire to just that: _deny_.  A voice in the back of his mind had been chanting _it’s nothing it’s nothing it’s nothing_ with every beat of his heart.  But that was a lie, and he knew it.  It was something.  He didn’t know what, but he knew what it was feeling like more and more.  _Sick.  Really sick._   He hadn’t been ill since before the serum, and not seriously ill for a couple years before his mom died.  This was wrong, and every nerve in his body was thrumming in anxiety over it.

Still, like his worry for Natasha, there was no time to be consumed by this.  When the attacks came, he rode his way through their awful waves.  They never lasted longer than a second or two, and the minute he felt that nauseating tightening in his gut and his lungs start to seize, he girded himself and tried _not_ to get killed while it lasted.  It always left him a tad disoriented, not enough that he lost his hold on his surroundings or the situation but sufficiently lethargic that his reflexes were slowed and his senses were dull.  Whatever was happening to him, it was getting worse and more difficult to ignore.  He needed to complete the mission and put an end to this, and he needed to do it quickly.

“Cap, status?” came Barton’s voice in his ear.

He breathed through the itching discomfort of another cough in his throat and tried to figure out where the hell he was.  The rear entrance had been some sort of loading dock, which had deposited him in the kitchen and warehouse section of the building.  Service staff had been gathered there, guarded by two thugs with Chitauri weaponry.  They hadn’t been a match for him, and hearing that the rest of the team had an eye on the rear entrance, he’d sent the hostages out to safety.  Then he’d gone deeper, trying to find out from the various screaming people he passed where the summit attendees were being kept.  No one seemed to know or be capable of answering him.  After a few minutes of frantic searching and angrily wishing that he had access to Hill and with her undoubtedly a map of this colossal place, he’d finally wrested some answers out of one of the terrorists.  Duquesne had ordered the word leaders be moved to the general assembly room.  Steve had torn through the chaos, saving people where he could.  As the situation outside had turned in favor of the Avengers, the precarious state of forced calm and fear inside the building had disintegrated, and it had turned into a free-for-all.  A few explosions had resounded through the structure, and some areas were burning.  He’d managed to clear them, but the smoke hadn’t done much to ease the ache in his lungs.  It felt like he was breathing through a wet rag, like no matter how he struggled, he couldn’t fill his chest.  Couldn’t get the oxygen he so desperately needed.

Sickness and asthma.  He couldn’t bear to even acknowledge that.

“Cap?”

At least he’d found the way to the assembly room.  Steve lifted his glove to his lips.  “Stand by.”

That didn’t sit well with Clint.  Maybe it was the lack of support he had right now, with the pandemonium raging all around him and the mess outside.  Maybe it was how his voice didn’t sound quite right to his throbbing ears and aching head.  It didn’t matter.  “I’m coming after you,” the archer said firmly.

“You’re clear to send people out.  The front entrance is secure,” Stark declared.  “But we don’t have eyes on Swordsman.  Copy that, Cap?  We’re looking.  It’s a hell of a mess out here.”

 _Great._ Steve was running down a nicely decorated, spacious hallway.  Building security was in a shoot-out with a group of terrorists ahead around the corner, and when they saw Captain America sprinting toward them, they practically melted in relief.  Steve threw his shield, bouncing it off the wall.  It went precisely the way he’d planned, smacking right into the chest of the first terrorist leaning around the cover of the corner.  Steve ducked under a barrage of bullets, sliding along the polished floor, and rolled forward, kicking out in an arc and sweeping the legs out from under the next man.  He grabbed the guy by his combat vest on the way down, flinging him into the wall with enough force to pulverize the drywall and break his bones.  Another thug came at him with a knife, and Steve squeezed at the switch inside his glove between his thumb and forefinger.  It was sewn completely into the leather, a tiny thing that activated the new magnets in the gauntlet.  His shield came right to him, smacking into his attacker as it came.  The vibranium hummed, nearly taking off the man’s head as it smashed into the back of his neck.  He crumpled.

This new tech of Tony’s had its uses.  With his shield back on his arm, he turned to the security personnel.  “Come with me,” he ordered.  They gawked at him, obviously recognizing who he was but probably too shocked and overwhelmed to follow his request.  Or they didn’t speak English.  _“S’il vous plait.  J’ai besoin de votre aide.”_

That got through to them.  With their guns drawn, they followed him down the hallway.  A sign indicated the general assembly room was down the next corridor.  Steve charged another small group of terrorists guarding a room, dispensing with them easily.  Inside there was a bunch of nicely dressed men and women.  Aides to the world leaders, it seemed.  “Get them out of here!” he barked at some of the guards with them.  Two younger men did as he asked, going inside the room to evacuate the victims.  “Hostages coming out,” he alerted the others through the comm link.

“Did you find the President and the others?” Sam breathlessly asked.

“Not yet.  Working on it.”  The rest of the guards followed him as he advanced deeper, still searching for the main room.  As they approached, the mess of victims in the hallways grew thicker.  Other fallen security personnel.  Dead and injured Secret Service and other personal bodyguards and protection units.  Duquesne and his men had slaughtered them, cutting through these poor souls with those Chitauri guns.  Steve tightened his jaw against his anger.  They hadn’t been fast enough to stop this.  He lifted his wrist to his mouth.  “We need medical in the building ASAP.  Dozens of injured.  More dead.”

What he hadn’t said was clear to Tony.  His reply was terse and strained.  “They’re ready.   Hawkeye and the Legion are escorting them in.”

“Status of communications?”

“Still down,” said Stark.  The anger in his voice turned to frustration and fear.  “Something must have happened at the Tower.”

Steve’s heart shuddered in his chest.  _Oh, God.  Nat._   He couldn’t focus.  And whatever the hell was wrong with him attacked in that moment, like a circle of hyenas coming in for the kill.  He coughed violently as the room spun, his lungs absolutely rebelling against him.  His throat closed.  Tony was still talking.  “Gonna get info as soon as I can, but without JARVIS, I’m flying blind here.  Literally.”  Steve couldn’t stop coughing.  The team heard it.  “Shit, Steve.  Who’s dying on you?  What’s wrong?”

A tentative hand fell on his back as he slumped into the wall, practically doubled over.  His vision blackened.  Over the ringing in his ears, he heard a worried voice.  _“Capitaine, êtes-vous blessé?”_

 _Get it together.  Come on._   He got a breath into his body.  Then another.  Tony was nattering in his ear, desperate with worry.  “I’m alright,” he managed, swallowing frantically to moisten his throat and stop the paroxysm.  His head positively pulsed in agony, and all he could taste was blood.  _Come on.  Hold it together.  Just get through this.  You need to get back to Nat._ Vaguely he recalled a promise he’d made to her that he would stop fighting if he felt like he couldn’t handle it.  Well, he wasn’t sure he could handle it.  But he was the closest to stopping this.  He needed to keep going.  “I’m fine.  _Je vais bien._ ”

“Cap–”

“Almost there,” he gasped, stopping Tony before he could say anything further.  _Almost there._   He pushed himself off the wall.  This last episode had hurt more than the others, and it wasn’t going away like it had before.  The pain and vertigo was lingering, draining him like a leech.  He was having a hard time focusing, his limbs leaden and his vision swimming in blurriness.  He blinked it away.  _Almost there._   _“Allons-y!”_   The others followed him as he surged (probably less than gracefully) down another corridor.  And another.  He prayed this would be it.  Every second felt like an eternity, and he didn’t know how much longer he could last.  There was no time to waste.

But waste it they did.  “Damn it,” Steve whispered as they met more resistance outside the entrance to the general assembly room.  A company of men with Chitauri weaponry was there, blocking their advance.  One of the security guards next to Steve immediately went down, shot in the leg by a blast of energy.  Steve gritted his teeth, letting a surge of adrenaline chase away the pain.  He caught the next strike with his shield, the blue blast fizzling over the gleaming surface.  He ran forward, fists flying and boots kicking.  Normally he tried to pull his punches more when facing normal humans; he knew how much damage he could do without trying.  Now his restraint was worn, whittled down to nothing, and he just wanted this over.  The men behind him were unloading the magazines of their guns.  Between that and Steve’s charge, the fight was over quickly.

Gathering himself, Steve glanced around at the array of dead and injured men on the floor.  The world tipped again.  _Hold it together._   He couldn’t.  Heat consumed him, fire crackling in his head.  His chest rebelled against him.  Warm, wet pain pricked its way up his throat like he’d swallowed thorns.  He dropped onto his knees, keeping his wrist mic away from his mouth as much as he could while he struggled for air.  The torture went on forever, those sharp jabs of pain in his throat turning into stabbing knives in between his ribs.  He was dying.  That was what this was.  _He was dying._

“Cap?  Cap!  Status!”

Steve shuddered, finally sucking in a ragged gasp.  “Tony…”  He couldn’t think of what he needed to say.  Help?  Help wasn’t coming.  _Nothing_ was coming.  He was alone, and he had to fight.  Natasha needed him.  _Nat…_

_“Steve, get up!  Get up!  Get up!  Steve!”_

The Red Guardian was looming over him.  Natasha was screaming.  Distant.  He had to get up because he couldn’t lose this fight.  If he lost, they’d take her.  They’d take her back to the Red Room.  They’d take her from him.  He couldn’t let that happen.  _He had to get up._

But the shadow looming over him wasn’t the Red Guardian.  Steve blinked the tears free from his eyes and saw only the comely face of one of the security guards.  Just like that, the fire receded and he was back in the building, back with the mission ahead of him and what he needed to do pressing on him.  He had to get up and stop this so he could go home.  She was waiting for him.  She was worried about him.

Natasha needed him.

He got up and staggered into the assembly room.  The sight that greeted him was fairly distressing.  Nearly two dozen world leaders were attending the summit, and all of them were there, arranged in the front row of seats that ran in concentric semi-circles around the center of the room.  President Ellis.  Prime Minister Wallace from the UK.  Prime Minister Furimoto from Japan.  The Presidents of Germany and France.  Representatives from African nations and South America and Russia.  A room full of many of the most important, powerful, and influential people in the world.

And they were all zip-tied at the wrists to the chairs.  Worse than that, what looked disturbingly like a bomb sat innocently in the center of the room.

All hints of weakness fled in the face of Steve’s determination to stop this.  The few terrorists stationed around the room immediately shot at him, guns firing over the noise of shouting and screaming.  He was too fast, throwing his shield in a wide arc that clipped all three of assailants.  Guns were sliced practically in half and dropped.  Steve vaulted across the seats, jumping to get the closest guy around the neck.  He broke the man’s arm without a second thought, slamming him into the chairs around them where he slumped to the floor.  The next one came at him with a knife.  The two sloppy stabs were easy to block, and Steve disarmed him before landing a roundhouse kick into the thug’s chest that propelled him across the huge room to hit the opposite wall.  The last one was fumbling to draw a handgun, but he never got a chance to aim it.  Steve tossed the knife and nailed him in the belly.  He fell with a cry.

Blood rushed in his ears.  Pain pulsed in his head.  He struggled and struggled to get a handle on his breathing.  The people in the room all began to talk at once.  Behind him, the security personnel rushed forward, bearing box-cutters to slice the zip-ties.  Steve raised his glove to his mouth.  “Tony,” he gasped raggedly, “come in.”

“Steve, what the hell is going on in there?”

He staggered toward the bomb.  It was comprised of two large, dark gray plastic cases rigged together with a cell phone above them.  He had to blink a few times to get his vision to focus.  The timer read less than five minutes.  “There’s a bomb in the hall.  Counting down.  Four minutes, thirty seconds.”

There was a moment of stunned silence.  Tony swore softly.  “Coming!”

“Hurry,” Steve reminded.  “Clint, Thor, we’re coming out with the hostages.  Clear the way.”

“Roger.  I’m nearly to you,” came Barton’s response.

Steve swallowed down the burning in his throat, staggering across the way to the row of dignitaries.  President Ellis stared at him, eyes as wide as saucers.  “Captain,” he said breathlessly.

“Sir, let’s get you out of here.”  A quick glance revealed more than half the attendees were already free from their bonds, terrified and barely clinging to any semblance of composure.  The remainder of the security forces was rushing them out, moving fast to protect and secure them.  “Hold still.”  The President braced himself, his hands balling into fists where they were bound above the armrests.  Steve carefully rammed the edge of his shield into the arm of the chair, slicing the zip-tie.  He did the same to the other side.  “Are you alright, sir?”

The President grabbed his arm and pulled himself upward.  A quick glance revealed he was unharmed, shaken but not injured.  “Can you get us out of here, Captain?” he gasped.

“We have the situation under control,” Steve assured.  He prayed that was the case.  He freed the next man, who was a balding, older fellow with a wiry body and fierce features.  He recognized him as David Wallace, the British Prime Minister.

Wallace took Steve’s other arm the moment he was free.  “This is a disaster.  Do you have any idea of the sort of message this sends–”

“With all due respect, sir, dress me down later,” Steve said stiffly.  The pain and dizziness was coming back quickly, shredding his patience, and he was definitely not in the mood for this.  “Let’s go.  Stark!”

“Almost there!”

Steve wiped a hand across his mouth, tasting blood again.  “Sirs, please.  Let me get you out of here.  Hurry.”

It was Ellis’ curt, respectful nod that silenced his colleague and got them both moving.  Ahead many of the world leaders were being directed out of the room by the security personnel.  A couple of them screamed, both a man and a woman.  The latter dropped to her knees in some debris and the former hid behind a couple of the security guards as Iron Man – _no, not Iron Man_ – burst inside the room.  Steve had to blink to be certain of what he was seeing.  Two suits of armor, designed in the same style as Iron Man but decked out in white, blue, and gray with the red Avengers logo on their breasts, appeared.  “Please stay calm,” the suits implored, raising their hands as they hovered around the hostages.  “Please stay calm.  If you are injured, raise your hand and I will assist you.”

 _The Iron Legion._   Steve swallowed thickly, surprised.  He remembered then about the army of Iron Man suits Tony had used to defeat the Mandarin.  Obviously he’d been inspired to create something similar to aid the Avengers.  Thinking about it anymore than that was too difficult, not with his brain as muddled and heat-stricken as it was.  He was just grateful for the extra help.

Tony burst into the room behind his legion, his armor dented and scraped from the fight.  “Bomb?  Where?”  If he noticed that Steve was wavering a little and suffering in the hot confines of his uniform, he didn’t say, consumed with the frantic situation and the time winding down.  Steve nodded toward the center of the room, and Tony jetted toward it.  “I got this,” he murmured over comms, mostly to himself. “Okay, I got this.”

The President and Prime Minister had stopped to watch Stark, and Steve nudged them both along a little less than patiently.  “We need to go.  Now, sirs.”

“Captain, are you–”

Steve ignored the question, ignored the concern, ignored the pain and dizziness and the leaden weight that felt to be settling in the bottom of his chest.  He struggled onward, keeping his shield at the ready to protect Ellis and Wallace as he escorted them out of the assembly hall.  Thankfully, both men were silent and pliant, allowing him to direct them through the halls and toward the main entrance.  Ahead Steve heard Clint shouting, Thor answering, the crackle of distant gunfire as the last of the terrorists came out of hiding.  The Iron Legion stayed with them, palm repulsors raised and firing at any threat coming out of the woodwork.  The group moved quickly, flanked and guarded by the Avengers.  Steve was dragging.  He could feel it again, the weakness, the hurt in his lungs and throat and the fire in his head.  Every step was a trying, difficult torture.   _Almost there.  It’s almost over._

_Nat’s okay.  She’s waiting for me._

“Stark, how’s it going?”

“I’ve got this, feathers.  Quit bothering me.”

“You sure?  Because we’re still inside the building!  If it goes–”

“It won’t.  _I’ve got this.”_

“Tony, Barton’s right.  We cannot get clear in time.  I must know now if you cannot diffuse the device so that I can save as many as I–”

“Done.”  There was the muted sound of something powering down, a low, weary whine.  Surely it was the bomb being deactivated.  “You were saying?”

“Good,” Thor conceded, relief in his voice.  “I was beginning to worry.”

“Beginning to?” Sam said with an exasperated laugh.  “I haven’t _stopped_.”

Just like that, the mood shifted.  There was a light, suddenly, at the end of the proverbial tunnel.  They were out of the front of the building and into the lawn.  Steve winced with sudden blast of daylight, eyes pulsing in their sockets.  The debris from the battle was massive.  Parts of the building were damaged.  The flaming carcasses of a couple of quinjets were letting billows of black up into the sky.  There were people everywhere.  Terrorists being arrested.  Citizens that hadn’t yet been evacuated.  EMTs and doctors trying to tend the wounded.  Security and local law enforcement and the media.  The media was there in force, actually, the same reporters from before having lived through the attack only to vociferously, excitedly, and literally tell the tale.  Helicopters filled the sky.

The moment they emerged from the building, soldiers and the media alike were on them.  People were shouting and cheering.  It was a swarm, chaotic and frenzied.  The world leaders were frantically being escorted by the military away from the battle.  “Stand back!” Thor bellowed.  “Let us pass and get these people to safety!”  Despite the volume of his voice and the strength of his stature, no one heeded him.

And despite the fact that everything seemed like it was over, Steve couldn’t focus anymore.  President Ellis was speaking to him, but it felt so distant, garbled and indistinct.  The last of his strength, fueled by adrenaline and the need to succeed in their mission, quickly started to fade.  The world was collapsing, graying and turning hazy and cold, and he thought he might collapse with it.  _Something’s wrong.  Something’s_ –

“–vengers, this is Hill.  Please tell me I’m getting through.”

“We read you, Maria,” Tony declared.  A brush of air to Steve’s right alerted him to Stark’s presence.  Iron Man thudded to the ground beside him, appraising the situation with his menacing eyes.  Ellis’ mouth was moving.  Steve couldn’t make sense of it.

Hill’s voice blared in his ear again.  “Then please tell me you’ve taken care of the situation.”

“It’s under control.”  Lights were flashing.  Cameras?  Steve winced and thought of bombs.  Ellis was holding his hand out to him.  “Right, Cap?” Tony prodded.  Steve took the President’s hand, shaking it.  Or maybe his hand was just shaking.  “Cap?” Tony said again.  “Steve?”

There was a howl to his left, deep and furious, and he turned in what felt like agonizing slow motion.  Silver flashed before his eyes, long and glimmering.  Deadly.  It was coming at him, at Ellis.  Steve’s heart lurched agonizingly in his chest, and he lifted his arm.

The sword struck his shield with a dull rattle that was deep and deafening.  The blow was hard but not hard enough to destroy his stance.  At least it shouldn’t have been.  But his muscles were weak with pain, infirm and withering, and he buckled.

Had Steve been more aware, he might have noticed everyone’s eyes on him, wide with shock and fear.  He might have noticed those cameras flashing and flashing.  Guns being drawn and people shouting.  As it was, he only felt the pain of concrete biting at his knees, the impact rattling his bones, and what little breath that was left in his lungs exploded out of his lips in a bloody cough.  The sword shrilly scraped along his shield, sparks flying.  It swung faster than he could move, quick and vicious as it cut into his side.  It wasn’t deep, a glancing blow that barely sliced through his uniform, but heat blossomed along his flank, heat that went through his stomach and chest and sucked the last bit of his strength dry.

The rest happened through a tunnel stretched light years long.  People screaming.  Men in uniforms encircling the President and the Prime Minister, leading them away.  Wide-eyed stares and panic.  The sound of repulsors firing.  Cool, smooth metal against his skin.  Someone calling his name.

An arrow driving into the Swordsman’s shoulder.  His blade glinted red and gray in the sun as he wielded it against a shadow.  _Clint._ “This isn’t over,” came a hiss.  “It won’t be until you’re dead at my feet!”

“I told you if you want to fight, we’ll fight,” Clint returned, arrow nocked and eyes deadly.  Teeming with hatred.  “Leave them out of this!”

“It’s too late for that.  You spread your darkness on them.”  There was a click, something in the Swordsman’s other hand, and part of the building exploded.  That bomb went off, despite Tony’s efforts.  It was a roar of thunder, fire.  People were wailing in terror again.  Steve came back to himself, pushing himself to his feet, shrugging Tony’s hands off.  Flames reached into the sky.  He watched them, lost, burning himself.  What was happening?  He thought he felt hands grabbing at him, slipping through his hair.  Voices coming through the fire.  Nat.  His mother.  Bucky.  _Where are they?_

_“I’m here.  I’m here.  Just breathe.”_

“You’ll fall, _every_ _single_ _one_ of you.”

_“Stay with me, my sweet boy.”_

“Like hell,” Clint sneered.

_“You’ve got your feet beneath you, Stevie.  Now stay on ’em.”_

“Seems like it’s already started.”  Steve blinked.  They weren’t there.  Tony was there.  Thor.  Clint.  And the Swordsman.  The man gave a smug smile, cocked an eyebrow, and that bloody sword pointed right at him.

Clint turned.  Horror shattered his scowl.  “Steve?” he whispered.

What was wrong?  Steve didn’t understand.  Then he felt something drip down his chin.  Something warm and bitter that coated his tongue.  He raised a shaking hand to his mouth, sliding his fingers experimentally along his lower lip.  They came away red.

Dripping red.

He couldn’t fight anymore.  He simply doubled over, finally caving under the pain, coughing and coughing.  He couldn’t hear anything over the roar of it in his head, in his heart.  Blood and saliva dribbled from his mouth, splattering to the ground beneath him.  A shadow slipped away.  Clint and Tony were there, grabbing him, shouting for Thor in horror, trying to hold him up.  They couldn’t.  _They couldn’t._

_“Just breathe, baby.  Breathe.”_

He couldn’t.

He fell.

* * *

It took a torturously long time to get back to New York.  It was only a matter of minutes, in reality, but it felt like an eternity.  A hellish, _hellish_ eternity.

When the quinjet finally touched down on the Tower’s landing pad, the sky was already swarming with the media.  Helicopters buzzed around the Tower, news choppers taking pictures of the damage done by the rogue quinjet but mostly filming the Avengers’ harried return.  Even though it was five in the morning and still deeply dark, they were there like vultures circling a carcass, eager to pick the last vestiges of flesh from bones.  “Get the fuck away from here!” Tony bellowed as he stepped out of the back of the jet.  He had his helmet in his hand, and he waved that angrily at them.  _“Get away!”_

His voice was lost to the noise, lost to the cold wind and the wet, icy drizzle that was wickedly blowing about.  The rest of the team came barreling out of the back of the jet.  Thor had Steve in his arms, Rogers’ large frame tucked against him as he ran down the ramp.  Sam followed as fast as he could, Steve’s shield slung over his back, his left arm draped over Clint’s shoulders as he limped.  Then he saw Natasha waiting in the Tower beyond, her face white and her eyes wide and her arms cradling the twins inside her.  _Oh, God…_

This was happening again.  Just like after he’d been hurt by the STRIKE Team, they were carrying Captain America into Stark Tower barely conscious and seemingly clinging to life.  Sam could hardly stand it, hardly believe how much that hurt and terrified him.  And it was _worse_ this time, worse with Natasha stumbling across the landing pad to reach for Steve’s limp hand.  The biting misery of failure left Sam’s eyes burning and heart shuddering in his chest.  _This isn’t happening!_

Clint darted from his side, running past where Thor was rushing to Bruce to take Natasha and get her away.  But it was too late.  The choppers came boldly closer as she shrugged Clint off and ran back to her husband.  “What happened to him?” she screamed over the din.  _“What happened?”_

“Get him inside!” Bruce shouted.  He had a bag of medical supplies over his shoulder, and he was quickly pulling on some latex gloves.  “Hurry!”

They moved fast.  Tony was yelling as they ran.  “JARVIS, I want these assholes gone from my airspace!  You hear me?  Get Happy up if you need him, but I want this fucking fixed!  They don’t publish a goddamn thing!”

“What–” Bruce asked

“We don’t know!” Tony sharply replied.

Hill had come out, her face bloodied.  What the hell had gone on at the Tower?  It didn’t matter right then.  She jogged past Thor, Bruce, and Tony trying to get Steve inside the Tower, past Clint trying to hold Natasha and keep her calm, and went to Sam.  She grabbed his arm to steady him, and not a moment too soon.  He hadn’t realized how close he’d been to simply toppling.  “What happened?” she gasped.  It seemed to be the only question any of them could ask.

Sam grimaced when he stepped on his foot and pain burst up his injured calf.  Walking was extremely unpleasant, but he didn’t even fathom stopping, not even as Hill took his arm to slow and help him.  “We’re not sure!  He just collapsed!”

“It’s all over the news!” Maria shouted back.  The wind was ripping her hair loose of its bun, and rain had slicked her skin almost instantly.  There was a gun in the holster on her hip.  Sam hadn’t seen her armed since the incident with Omega Red.  “It’s everywhere!  The President wants information!”

“Well, he needs to wait until we have some to give him!” Tony snapped angrily.

The news helicopters outside the Tower were pressing closer, obviously trying to get pictures of the team carrying their fallen leader inside their headquarters.  And pictures of Natasha.  _Shit,_ Sam thought as the lights from one of the choppers flooded directly over Natasha and Clint.  There was no hiding how pregnant she was, not with her sweater clinging wetly to her in the rain.  That sharp sense of guilt got sharper still, slicing at Sam’s heart.  He gritted his teeth and went after them.  _Just get inside._   That was the thought that had repeated over and over again in his head the second Thor had burst into the back of the Avengers quinjet where Clint had landed it on one of the expansive lawns surrounding the UN building.  Thor had been carrying Steve’s limp body over his shoulder, his blue eyes wide with fear.  _Just get him down._ They’d laid Steve on the floor; the jet wasn’t really equipped with medical supplies and equipment beyond the barest of first aid essentials (apparently Stark hadn’t had time to finish something that important before rushing the aircraft to completion).  But they hauled out what they could.  Blankets to cover his shivering body.  Bandages.  _Just get his helmet off.  Get his uniform off._ Thor had done that, Tony frantically examining Steve with Iron Man’s biometric scanners and finding his heart racing and his respiration weak.  They’d pressed bandages to the slice in his side.  Then they’d tried frantically to rouse him.  Steve had been deeply unconscious and pale as a ghost under the blood around his mouth, blood that Tony washed away, tender and tortured.  _Just get us off the ground.  Just get us back to the Tower._   Clint had rushed to the pilot’s seat, floundering with shaking hands to get the jet aloft as quickly as possible.  Sam had nearly lost his balance the take-off had been so abrupt and graceless.  _Just get him home.  We can take care of this.  Doctor Banner will know what to do.  Just get home._

Stepping inside the threshold of the Tower didn’t bring the sense of comfort and control Sam had hoped.  Ahead Thor was carrying Steve toward the elevator, and Bruce had his hands jabbed into Steve’s carotid artery.  “Was he hit?  Did anyone see?”

“Swordsman sliced him,” Tony replied, “but it didn’t go deep.  It’s nothing!”

“I was not with him for most of the fight,” Thor replied breathlessly, “but the times I saw him he was hale.  He was–”

Steve suddenly lurched in Thor’s grip.  It was inhuman, the way he abruptly writhed and went stiff.  His muscles contorted beneath the thin material of his under armor, bulging and twisting in waves of uncoordinated and violent spasms, and Thor was so shocked he nearly dropped him.  “What’s happening?” the demigod gasped, falling to his knees as Steve quaked.

“He’s having a seizure!” Bruce announced, his voice cracking in panic.  “Get him on the floor!  Get him down!”  Thor did, setting Steve to the floor as gently as he could.  Steve started shaking violently as the fit grew stronger.  Sam watched in horror as Tony dropped to a crouch beside Thor, and the two of them attempted to keep their captain still.  “No!” Bruce shouted, desperate as he dug in the bag of supplies.  “No, don’t hold him down like that!  You run the risk of–”

Steve’s head snapped back, smacking into the tiles of the floor roughly, and his wrist audibly cracked as Thor tried to keep his arm down.  “Jesus,” Tony moaned in despair.  Sam lost his line of sight for a moment as Iron Man struggled to keep Steve stable without restraining him too firmly.  Thor did the same, gently gathering Steve’s flailing arms against his chest.  Steve’s heel slammed down, smashing the tile beneath him.  Natasha jumped.  Her eyes were wide with horror as she watched him suffer, writhing as though being shocked.  Barton had an arm around her, first holding her back but now for comfort.  His own eyes were teeming with pain and anger, the stubble on his jaw darkening his face even further.  Sam couldn’t decide which was more awful to watch: Steve involuntarily and violently convulsing or Natasha watching helplessly as the man she loved was practically torn apart in front of her.  _Again._

_How is this happening again?_

“Was he wounded?” Bruce asked.

“No!”

“Were there bioweapons during the fight?” Bruce demanded tersely.  He’d fished out a few syringes from his bag.  Steve sputtered on a bloody breath, his face flushed, the flesh of his neck going beet red and veins protruding as he labored for air.  He gagged and coughed, red froth slipping from the corner of his mouth.  “Thor, turn on him his side.  Easy!  Easy!  He’s choking!”  Thor tipped Steve as best as he could, Tony coming closer to aid him.  The bloody mucus dribbled from Steve’s lips, splattering all over the floor and Bruce’s pants.  Bruce’s eyes hardened, uncapping the syringe with his teeth and jabbing it into a vial of clear liquid.  He loaded the needle with the medicine.  “Come on!” he demanded after he pulled the cap from his lips.  “Were there bioweapons?  Toxins?  Anything like that?”

“No,” Maria said faintly.  She was pale and her eyes were as wide as saucers.  “Reports are saying no.  No one else is sick!”

“It might not be contagious,” Bruce argued.

“There was nothing,” Tony confirmed.  “Nothing that we saw.  Shit!”  Steve fought against them, against _himself_ , squirming and lashing out as the seizure intensified.  Sam shook his head in horror as Steve’s knee rammed into Tony’s chest.  Stark was knocked back into them, and Sam went down when they collided.  He couldn’t keep his cry of pain inside as he struck the floor, his injured leg burning in absolute agony as it was twisted and crushed under the weight of Iron Man.  Steve’s shield fell with a dull rattle.   “Sorry!  Sorry!”  Tony scrambled off of him and returned to Steve’s side.  Sam trembled in pain, fighting to lean up.  Maria was there, her hands icy but comforting against his heated skin.  She helped him back to his feet, dragging him a few feet away from the horrific scene for safety.

“This is bad!” Stark gasped.  Steve’s fingers had latched onto Iron Man’s vambrace.  He was squeezing hard, hard enough to dent the plating.  “His heart rate is through the roof!”

“How high is his fever?”

“High!  104!”  Natasha choked on her breath.  It was a soft, whimpering thing.  Clint held her tighter.  Tony groaned, Iron Man’s armor taking another crushing hit as Steve twisted around.  A deep, hacking cough exploded from his chest, and crimson sprayed onto the floor.  His body bent and twisted, and he gave a wrangled cry.  They barely got him turned to his side again before another rush of liquid flooded from his mouth, this one vomit mixed with bright, bright blood.  “Get back!” Tony hollered, although the team had already retreated out of shock, terror, and disgust.

“We need to stop this!” Thor said with a strained groan, fighting to hold Steve on his side while his stomach expelled everything inside it.

“Tell me how!” Bruce snapped.  He brought the needle closer once the fit had ended.  Throwing up had inexplicably eased Steve.  He was relaxing a bit, contained by Thor and Tony again.  In one swift motion, Bruce jabbed the syringe into Steve’s bicep.  “Pray this does something…”

“What is it?” Thor asked.

“Sedative.  Muscle relaxant.  Amped up to hopefully deal with his metabolism, but–”  The moment of relief was painfully short-lived.  Another seizure came unexpectedly, fast and practically on top of the first one.  “God,” Bruce moaned, fumbling for another dose of the medication.  He nearly got kneed in the chin, but Tony pulled him back at the last second.  Sam’s heart leapt in terror; if he got hurt and lost his control, this already awful situation could become infinitely worse.  Bruce himself seemed to realize how dangerous this was, and not just for Steve.  He backed away, drawing a few deeper breaths.  “Easy, easy.  Easy.”  His words were soft, but faster.  Calm, but all Sam could hear was helplessness.  “What the hell is going on here…”  He saw an opening, surged forward, and injected Steve again in the arm.

It didn’t do much.  Steve’s head whipped backward again, and Tony was forced to let him go.  His skull smacking into the floor was awful.  His back arched, practically throwing Tony off of him.  Thor cried out as he was struck across the face, all of Steve’s considerable and unhinged strength behind the blow.  Undaunted, the demigod returned instantly, placing his firm hands on Steve’s shoulders to stabilize his neck as his lower body convulsed wildly.  “Peace, my friend,” Thor implored quietly.  “Please…  Heed my voice.  Peace.”

“Bruce,” Tony implored softly.  His eyes were filled with pain and desperation, his face bruised.  Sam had never seen him so lost.  “Bruce, we gotta–”

“I know.”  Bruce shook his head.  “Just let him go.  Give the drugs a chance to work.”

The seconds that followed went on endlessly.  Steve continued to writhe, rough and unrestrained, and the team had no choice but to let him.  He was too strong, too dangerous like this, out of his mind with his fever and the seizures.  Thor and Tony stayed close, but there was nothing more they could do.  Nothing any of them could do.  _Nothing_ , other than watch and wait.  And pray.

Finally the fit passed.  Steve’s suffering body uncoiled, the furious tension in his muscles relaxing seemingly one at a time as he sank lifelessly back onto the floor.  His eyes remained tightly closed as he dropped back down into unconsciousness.  The medicine was working.  _The medicine’s working._   Sam nearly blanked out, his relief was so strong.  He closed his eyes, sagging slightly into Hill’s side as the pain he’d all but forgotten rushed over him anew.  Pain from his leg.  Pain from the countless bumps and bruises.  Pain from being crushed under Stark’s suit.  Pain in his chest from his shuddering heart.

“He must have been exposed to something,” Bruce said, shattering a seemingly unbreakable silence.  Sam looked to him and found him laying one gloved palm over Steve’s forehead.  Sam could imagine how it felt, how searing hot Steve’s skin was.  Bruce nearly recoiled from it, but he didn’t.  He looked back to the others.  “Are you _absolutely sure_ he didn’t get hit with anything?”

“No,” Tony returned.  “No!  But even if he was, it wouldn’t affect him like this.”

“What about the serum?” Sam heard himself ask.  “Could it be–”

“Maybe,” Bruce said conceded, and damn if that wasn’t horrifying.  _The serum failing._ Steve was breathing harsh and fast, fighting for every weak pant.  Bruce was measuring his pulse again, even though Tony could have probably told him faster.  He was flustered, his face covered in sweat, hair askew and eyes glazed with frenzied thought.  “But something this acute wouldn’t be caused by the serum degenerating.  He _must_ have been exposed to something during the battle.”  Sam considered that.  He tried to think, tried to _remember_.  Had Steve been hit by a weapon that he hadn’t seen?  _No, he wasn’t.  I was right there.  I would have noticed._

Unless it had happened when he’d gone into the building by himself.  Steve wasn’t awake, let alone aware enough, for them to ask him.  But…  “He was coughing right before he went down,” Sam said.  “Slurring his words.  I heard it.”

“So did I,” Tony said.  “I didn’t realize–”

“Neither did I,” Thor agreed angrily.

“Then he _was_ exposed to something,” Bruce proclaimed.  He was speaking quickly, more certain of himself.  “We need to get him down where we can run some tests.  Unless this toxin was specifically designed to defeat the serum, chances are good he can fight it off.  And if it’s biowarfare and I can identify whatever it is, there may be an antidote to help.  It’ll be alright.  This has to be it!  It’s the only explanation.”

“He was sick before.”

Natasha’s soft declaration cut through the frantic conversation and Steve’s labored wheezing and all of their pounding hearts.  Sam turned to her, his eyes widening and his stomach turning in nauseous misery.  _Oh, God.  No._   Natasha’s eyes were filling with helpless tears.  “Before he left.  He was – he was coughing then, too.  He couldn’t breathe and I thought for sure he had a fever.  God, I should have stopped him.  I should’ve…”

Sam couldn’t truly process what that meant for a moment.  No one could.  Confused glances were met with more of the same, the corridor tense and silent as the enormity of what Natasha was saying sunk into their minds and hearts.  _He was sick before._   Sam thought he was going to be sick now.  Steve had been ill, suffering with _whatever this was_ before they’d left New York, and he hadn’t noticed.  That awful guilt turned unbearable, heavy and brutalizing.  But as terrible as that was, what this meant was even worse.

He was sick before the battle.  This problem predated the fight in Geneva.  That meant this wasn’t a known bioweapon unleashed by the terrorists.  And if it wasn’t a known bioweapon…  Sam didn’t know if there was such a thing as fate, but maybe there was, because all of them seemed to come to the same sickening conclusion at once.

_The alien that clawed him._

“Oh, God,” Bruce whispered, paling completely once more.  “Tony, tell me you put a quarantine room into the medical ward.”  Tony couldn’t speak.  He seemed broken.  _Shattered._   Bruce lost his patience.  “Everyone, get away!  Back up!  Back away _right now!”_   Clint dragged Natasha a few steps back.  Maria was with them, pulling Sam, and Sam mindlessly followed, his body moving on autopilot because he felt as destroyed as Tony looked.  Bruce sprung to his feet, scrambling away from Steve’s limp form as if he’d suddenly turned to poison right before their eyes.  He might as well have.  They were dealing with something _completely_ unknown.  Something potentially deadly and potentially contagious.  “Tony, answer me!  Do we have a place to quarantine him?”

“Yeah.  Yes.”

“Get him there!  _Hurry!_ ”

Thor was the one who moved, however.  The risk was irrelevant.  He gathered Steve in his arms again, looping an arm under his knees and another around his shoulders.  He stood, troubled but not by the weight, and raced to the elevator.  Tony followed, reaching for his helmet.  His eyes glistened wetly, a brief flash and nothing more, before he put it back on for protection and followed Thor into the lift.  The doors slid shut, and they were gone.

Bruce peeled off the gloves and threw them next to the mess of blood and vomit on the floor.  “I want all of you down in the medical ward.  Whatever this is, we’ve all been exposed to it.”

“We’re not sick,” Maria protested weakly.

“Doesn’t matter.  Until we know what we’re dealing with, _everyone_ stays in the ward.”  Bruce’s command was sharp and irrefutable.  “JARVIS, help them follow biohazard protocols.  Put the Tower on lockdown.”

“Yes, Doctor Banner.”

Bruce swept his eyes over them once more before running to the fire escape doors at the other end of the hallway and disappearing down the stairs.

The door slamming shut was thunderous, rattling the whole Tower, it seemed.  As if the realization of what was truly happening suddenly sank into her, Natasha wrenched away from Clint.  She was rushing, running, one step away from consuming panic.  “Nat!”  Clint jumped after her.  Had Natasha been her normal self, agile and fleet, he would have never been able to catch her in time.  As it was, he gently took her arm and forced her to stop.  “Nat, stop!  Stop!”

She stopped.  “I’ve got to be down there.  I’ve got to be with him.  You can’t keep me away.  You can’t–”

“I’m not going to,” Clint said firmly.  “But you are not running down ten flights of stairs like this.  You want those babies to be born while their dad’s sick?”

That pierced Natasha’s firm façade, and she simply crumpled.  Sam watched her struggle a moment before she succumbed and relaxed into Clint’s arms.  She buried her face in his shoulder and choked out a single sob.  “This isn’t happening,” she whispered.  “This isn’t…  It’s not…  It’s not happening!”

Sam bent over and picked up Steve’s fallen shield.  He swallowed down the pain and lifted it, running shaking hands over the smooth edge of the vibranium.  It hurt so damn much.  He closed his eyes and reached over, curling his fingers around Clint’s shoulder, offering and seeking support at once.  Barton flinched and gasped a sigh, holding Natasha tighter as she trembled in his arms.  _This isn’t happening.  This isn’t happening!_

But it was.  It was happening.

And he wasn’t sure anyone could do anything to stop it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _S'il vous plait. J'ai besoin de votre aide._ – Please. I need your help.  
>  _Capitaine, êtes-vous blessé?_ – Captain, are you hurt?  
>  _Je vais bien._ – I'm fine.  
>  _Allons-y!_ – Let's go!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** There may be some medical inaccuracies in this chapter. I know the way the team deals with Steve's fever isn't necessarily the best course, but I don't know what else you might do with a super soldier upon whom drugs have no effect, so I ran with it. Also, Clint's backstory and the Swordsman are an amalgamation of the comics and my own take on it. And finally, as usual, I am using made up science (alien science and comic book science tied into some smidgen of maybe real science), and I'm running with that, too :).
> 
> Prepare yourselves for angst. A lot of it.

_“I can’t let you do this.”_

There was a gun.  A gun that was shaking but not shaking enough to be hesitant.  _“You’re not going to stop me.”_

The finger tightened on the trigger.  A warning.  A promise.  _“Yes, I will.  What the hell are you thinking?  We haven’t had much, but we’ve always had each other.  You do this, you throw your lot in with this…  I gotta do what I gotta do.”_

_“So do it.  Do it or walk away.”_

_“I’m your brother.  I’m not walking away from you and I’m not letting you destroy yourself.  I promised myself I’d take care of you.”_   Now the gun did waver, lower, but not out of fear or doubt.  Out of hope.  _“Come on.  Come with me.  It doesn’t have to be like–”_

The gun went off.

Clint opened his eyes.  A tortured gasp punched through his lips, and he shot up off the wall where’d fallen asleep.  For a moment, he couldn’t quite remember where he was or what was going on, but his disorientation was short-lived.  He was in the medical ward, where they’d _all_ been for hours now.  Stuck in the middle of another nightmare.  This wasn’t one from which he could just wake up and move on.  This one wasn’t going away.

He shuddered.

The quarantine section Tony had constructed for the infirmary was a floor down from the ward itself, positioned in the middle of the Tower.  Clint had had no idea this place even existed.  It was large but felt very enclosed.  There were no windows, and there was only one way in or out.  It was a suite of four rooms, all equipped with state of the art medical supplies and resources.  These weren’t as strictly contained as the main room was, the main room where Steve was.  That was in a central location on the floor, one that was on its own air supply if the vents overhead were any indication.  Clint knew it wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a sick room with the highest level of biohazard protections in place, but to him it looked like a prison cell.  It was tucked against the corner of this spacious place, flanked by computer terminals and lab benches.  Two of its four walls were glass (not glass.  Something far thicker and impenetrable, but the effect was the same).  Its entrance led out into the corridor through a clean room filled with biohazard suits and other personal protective gear.  There were closets adjacent to that, storage teeming with supplies from spare sheets and towels to needles and medications to portable medical equipment.  Everywhere there were warnings, warnings on walls and on items, red and yellow signs that made one’s skin crawl.  Here there were very specific and important protocols to prevent infection of people and contamination of things.  Here being careful was the only safeguard in dealing with risks these severe.

It didn’t seem to be enough.  The air was still, recycled, reeking of antiseptic.  Tense with terror.  It wasn’t much of a comfort, but the quarantine room itself was as pleasant as such a utilitarian and practical thing could be.  It was large, perhaps twenty feet by twenty feet, with gray walls ( _everything_ down here was gunmetal gray, sleek and metallic and cold) and a tiled floor.  A bed was attached to one wall, a nice looking one despite its nearly plastic mattress and thin sheets and blankets.  There was also an alcove that was hidden behind a gray privacy panel that contained a toilet and a shower.  Other than that, though, the room was barren, separated by those thick, glass walls and those strict protocols.  These things were a barrier between sterility and disease that was not meant to be crossed.  A demarcation between safety and danger, between survival and suffering.  A line between life and death.

And Steve was on one side of that line.  Everyone else was on the other.

Thor and Tony had brought him into the room a few hours ago, and since then he’d been fitfully sleeping on the bed.  Thor had been reluctant to leave him, but Bruce, newly donning a white biohazard suit that resembled something right out of a science fiction movie, had insisted the Asgardian go.  Perhaps Thor was more resilient and more likely to withstand whatever was assailing Steve, but they couldn’t be certain until they knew exactly what it was with which they were dealing.  It seemed highly probably that whatever had infected Steve had come from another world, another of Thor’s realms, and that meant all bets were off.  Unhappily, Thor had acquiesced.  That had left Tony, safe in his Iron Man, and Bruce to try and stabilize Rogers.  They’d managed to get the rest of Steve’s uniform off of him.  With the aid of JARVIS and the biometric scanners, they’d done a thorough examination.  True to Tony’s word before, though, there hadn’t been any sign of injury other than the shallow slice from Duquesne.  The scratches Steve had suffered days ago during the battle with the Kretal were long gone, healed without so much as a trace of where they’d been.  For some reason, that only made all of this more ominous, like the cause of this horror truly was invisible and undetectable.  Both of the scientists had been tense and unhappy, bandaging the sword wound and Steve’s fractured wrist before gathering blood and tissue samples.  The rest of the team had stood on the other side of the glass, watching anxiously as they’d worked.  Thankfully, Steve had remained unconsciousness throughout all of it.  They’d dressed him in a pair of loose-fitting hospital pajamas, tucked him in the bed, and left him to rest.

Tony had taken Steve’s samples to the lab area, while Bruce had come out to gather data from the rest of the team.  None of them were ill, not even hours later, so that was something of a comfort.  But they were all silently horrified, sharing glances, worried and waiting to see if this was an isolated incident or something far worse.  Blood had been collected; for now, Banner would start with that and see if he could isolate what was making Steve sick and then compare it to their samples to determine if anyone else had been exposed.  It didn’t seem likely.  They’d _all_ been in contact with Steve since the battle in London (some especially closely – the thought of Natasha getting sick was horrifying, and they were all preoccupied with it), and no one else showed even the smallest sign of infection.  But there was no sense in taking a risk.  That old adage about how it was better to be safe than sorry was disgustingly apropos.

And then there was the question of how to deal with the people who’d potentially been exposed who weren’t there at the Tower.  Happy.  Pepper.  Whoever else Steve might have seen or touched or talked with face to face.  Not to mention the dozens of civilians who Steve had rescued during the skirmish in Geneva.  And President Ellis.  The media was positively flooded with images of Steve standing in front of the President, blocking Swordsman’s strike with his shield.  Of Steve collapsing right after, blood pouring from his mouth.  Bruce made the argument that the CDC should be alerted, that if this was a threat, it should be handled immediately on multiple fronts.  However, there was little sense in causing a panic (well, more of a panic – people were already horrified at both the Swordsman’s bold attack and the images of Captain America going down so suddenly).  It stood to reason that the chances of infection were low.  The serum kept Steve immune to _everything_ , and it had been days since initial exposure (if this had come from the Kretal, which seemed likely).  If it had taken all that time to bring down a super soldier, a normal human would have surely been dead by now, or at the very least seriously ill.  Fortified by that logic, Hill (and Banner, though reluctantly) had chosen to delay involving anyone else in this for now.  Once they isolated the pathogen and learned something about it, they could make a more informed decision.

Still, while he worked, Bruce wanted everything and everyone contained.  So the team sat, frustrated, frightened, and worried, with nothing to do but watch their captain suffer.  Steve wasn’t conscious, at least not enough to be aware of what was happening.  Tony had given him another dose of the sedative to try and keep him still and sleeping, but Clint could see now that it hadn’t lasted.  Steve was on the bed, burning alive with a raging fever that Bruce’s medications were doing nothing to lower.  The monitors affixed to the top of the quarantine room were keeping track of the soldier’s vitals, and they looked terrible.  His heart rate was elevated, his O2 sats poor, his blood pressure unsteady.  His temperature was 105.2, high enough to be a sign of significant damage or imminent death in a normal person.  Whatever his body was fighting, it was extremely serious.  It was hard to tell if he was in pain; he was wracked with chills, with rough, unrelenting shivering, but his eyes seemed to be half-lidded and mostly vacant.  Clint couldn’t imagine that he wasn’t.

With a groan, Clint pushed himself up from the wall where he’d fallen asleep, his own bumps, scrapes, and bruises protesting the effort sharply.  Everything was quiet, the absence of even the slightest sounds enough to remind him that he’d turned off his hearing aids to sleep.  If only switching them off could switch off his brain.  It had taken a while to finally nod off, propped against the wall across the way from the quarantine cell.  And he hadn’t slept long obviously, if the positions of everyone else was any indication.  Sam was still slumped over one of the lab benches, every muscle in his body coiled tight like it was physically uncomfortable to sit there and do nothing.  Bruce and Tony were in the background by the lab area, working tensely, murmuring quietly as they did.  Maria was off to the side, surrounded by StarkPads.  The computer monitors around her were playing the media coverage of GSIS4 attack, harping on the few seconds caught on camera of Steve choking on the blood in his throat and Tony and Clint floundering to get to him.  It was rapidly becoming the most watched clip in YouTube history, seconded by only the blurry video one of the news choppers had taken of a very pregnant Natasha Romanoff reaching for her husband’s limp body as it was carried into Avengers Tower by Thor.  Predictably, the fall-out from all of that was unimaginable.  This was huge, a radical breach of Natasha’s privacy on top of the undeniable symbolism of Captain America “falling” to protect the President of the United States.  It was indescribable, how shaken the world was.

Clint didn’t think Natasha knew or cared.   The President gave a press conference coming out in gratitude of the Avengers’ efforts and assuring the world that everything was alright when it wasn’t.  The White House press secretaries fumbled to give answers to questions about Steve Rogers’ health that they didn’t have. Pundits and talk show hosts and media hounds all over the globe sputtered and speculated and went on and on about Black Widow and Captain America and their private lives like it was any of _their fucking business._   It made Clint want to _hurt_ something, these assholes leaping on this like an opportunity to sell ad space to the masses.  They had no idea what was going on in this cell, that Natasha was sitting _on the floor_ eight months pregnant, sitting as close as she possibly could to Steve.  Even though he was across the quarantine room and completely unaware that she was there, she hadn’t moved.  _That_ was what this was.  Not a point to be made.  Not Duquesne and his goddamn need for revenge.  Not the Avengers causing another world crisis and the masses rallying behind them or decrying their failures.  Not Captain America’s brave _sacrifice_.  This was a woman weeks, maybe even just _days_ , from giving birth keeping vigil while the man she loved, the father of her children, withered in front of her eyes.

Clint wanted to hurt something, to _kill_ someone.  This was hell.  _Again._   Maybe everything had been a lie, this sense of peace and stability.  Maybe they’d never escaped those nightmares before.  Natasha shooting Steve.  SHIELD falling.  Omega Red.  Maybe this was just a continuation.  Nothing seemed quite real, not the nightmare from before Clint had fallen asleep and not the nightmare he’d just had of things long forgotten.  His past, swooping from the darkness to drag him back.  Just as Natasha’s had in Crimea.  And just as Steve’s had when the Winter Soldier had nearly destroyed him.  It was his turn, it seemed.  He clenched his shoulders hard to stop another shudder from wracking his form.  It had been more than twenty years since he’d last seen Jacques Duquesne, since he’d even thought about him, and now…  _Christ.  I can’t deal with this._

Maybe he’d been right to worry.  Maybe he’d _never woken up at all._

Sick of his own bullshit, he quietly walked over to Sam.  The hospital scrubs he wore weren’t entirely comfortable (or warm, and it was cold in here), but it was all he had.  It was all any of them had.  Bruce had confiscated the clothes from everyone, particularly those of them who’d come in contact with Steve’s bodily fluids.  Sam didn’t turn at his approach, the impressive muscles of his arms taut as he pushed himself upright from the work bench.  He was standing entirely on his uninjured leg, his crutches propped beside him.  “How is he?” Clint asked softly.  In the tense and heavy quiet, that soft question was booming.

Sam was practically grinding his teeth.  “How’s it look like he’s doin’?”

It was hard to look.  Steve was curled on the bed, tangled up in the sheets and blanket, quivering continually.  He was somehow flushed and pale at once, and there was not a drop of sweat to be seen on him.  His body was making no attempt to cool itself.  His face was taut with a grimace, lips dried and cracked.  His eyes were open, bright with fever, but they weren’t focusing.  How could they?  His brain was cooking.

Clint turned his gaze away, but what was on the other side of the glass wasn’t any more comforting.  At least now Thor was with Natasha.  Perhaps he looked a tad ridiculous in the largest scrubs they’d been able to find (which were still too small), but he was stalwart.  He was sitting right beside her, his arm around her back to offer physical as much as emotional support.  Natasha normally didn’t care for sentiments like that from anyone except Steve, and when she was upset she tended to push people away.  Now she was leaning into Thor’s side, readily accepting his strength.  It was such small solace.  “Jesus,” Clint whispered, and he dropped his aching eyes to the floor.

“Hey, just ’cause we don’t know what this is yet doesn’t mean he can’t beat it,” Sam said.  He had more optimism than anyone Clint had ever met.  Not in-your-face obnoxious confidence or head-in-the-sand foolish denial, but simple, practical faith.  “He’s gotten through worse shit before.”

Clint couldn’t argue with that.  He’d seen firsthand just how strong Steve was, how tough and brave.  And he’d witnessed _just how much_ Steve’s body could take.  He didn’t like to think about that, but it was true.  In the last six months, Rogers had survived so much and thanks to the serum he was no worse for the wear.  That stuff made him practically invincible.  And Sam was right.  They didn’t know what this was.  Maybe it was something the serum could defeat.  There was no reason to give up hope.

He was trying not to, but he wasn’t good with optimism.  He never had been.  Barney had always gotten angry with him for that.  But even when they’d been kids, he’d seen too much and done too much to ever put stock in things just working out okay.

A soft voice behind them drew their attention.  “I realize that probably nobody wants to talk about the mission right now, but we need to debrief,” Hill softly said.  She was absolutely right; _no one_ did.  Thor glanced back at them, tensing slightly as if in refusal, his hand still firm on Natasha’s back.  It was so quiet that Tony and Bruce heard.  Both of them looked up from his work, but neither made any move to come over. 

Sam sighed, deflating.  “Be a distraction at least,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder at Steve.  Rogers squirmed against unseen miseries, curling tighter into himself until he was practically in a fetal position.  Natasha was watching him with bleary eyes.  Aside from that moment in the hallway after their return from Geneva, she hadn’t cried.  Sam shook his head.  “Clint?”

Clint also had absolutely zero interest in debriefing but for more selfish reasons.  Any discussion would inevitably lead to Duquesne, and that would inevitably lead to his relationship with him.  But the cat was out of the bag; there wasn’t any way to put it back at this point.  If Duquesne was gunning for him, there wasn’t going to be any hiding.  Obviously the son of a bitch was willing to endanger hundreds of innocent people and make some ridiculous show in order to get his vengeance.  And he’d escaped.  Steve coincidentally going down had provided a convenient distraction, far more than even Duquesne blowing the UN building, and by the time the Avengers had recovered from seeing their captain collapse, he’d been long gone.  Maybe it was premature to be thinking about this right now when Steve was sick and there was still the possibility the rest of them could get sick, but there was no escaping the fact Duquesne had found him.  It made sense when he thought about it.  His secrets were out all over the internet, too.

No escaping any of it.  “Yeah.”

They retreated to the back of the room, not so far that they couldn’t see what was happening but hopefully far enough as not to disturb Natasha (not that it mattered – was there anything they could say that could possibly make this worse?).  Tony came, offering a defeated shrug.  “Tests are running.  Can’t make them go faster.”  Clint glanced back to Natasha.  She made no move to get up, whispering something he couldn’t quite hear to Thor (despite the fact that he was noticing his hearing aids had actually _improved_ his hearing over what it had been).  Thor shook his head and sat closer, beckoning her to lean back into him to provide some support to her undoubtedly aching back.  She actually did.  “What have you got?  Tell me it’s something good.”  Tony’s voice pulled him back to their little meeting.  The inventor’s face was lined with pain.  “Need to hear something good.”

Hill tipped her head.  “I do have good news.  For once.”

“Wow.  Lay it on me,” Tony said.

“This is an awful thing to say right now.  Believe me, I know that.  But…”  Maria sighed.  She obviously didn’t even _want_ to tell them, and that was more than enough evidence as to what she had to say.

“Let me guess.  Cap going down right after doing his hero thing for the President has gotten us a huge PR boost,” Tony said.

Maria winced.  “Something like that.”

“Well, ain’t that special,” Tony snarled.  Around them the monitors were still mutely playing news feeds from around the world, the outcry of support, the outrage that the Avengers had been placed in a position to defend themselves _from_ humanity in addition to defending humanity.  People furiously talking, furiously demanding the Avengers receive _better_ support from the world’s governments.  The thought that they were getting validation and acceptance at Steve’s expense was sickening.  It was the same shit, over and over again.  A world crisis.  An alien invasion or evil emerging from within SHIELD or monsters terrorizing Times Square.  The Avengers come in to take care of it, protect people, contain the threat.  The Avengers get hurt, carrying a nuke through a wormhole or taking a bullet to stop tyranny or _dying_ at the hands of a demon.  Collapsing while trying to protect this vulnerable world.  And then people love them for a while before everyone fucking _forgets_ what they sacrifice to do this duty.

There was no forgetting it here and now.  Steve gave a wrangled cry, rolling over slightly to lie on his back.  Natasha immediately looked up and helplessly pressed her hands to the glass, horror splaying all over her features.  But there was nothing.  Steve settled back down into a shivering, senseless stupor, his eyes closing as he fought to breathe.  Natasha stayed closer to the glass, every line of her body radiating just how much she wanted to be with him.

Clint turned away.  “You got anything better to tell us?” he demanded tensely.

Maria’s expression tightened in a mixture of hurt and anger at his not so subtle condemnation.  He couldn’t bring himself to feel bad.  “Do _you_ have anything you’d like to say?  Seeing as how I’m pretty sure this little adventure in Geneva was a bit more personal than you’re letting on.”

Clint folded his arms across his chest.  He tried to gather the remains of his composure.  “You got anything on him?  Any idea where he went?”

Hill sighed.  “No.  In all the chaos after the Cap went down, he got away.  I’ve had JARVIS running a trace on him since then, but we’ve got nothing.  He’s in the wind again.”

Sam’s face darkened, and his eyes turned sharp.  They settled directly on Clint.  “Who is this guy?”

Thankfully, Hill had done research.  If there was anything Clint had learned about her since she’d become Deputy Director of SHIELD, she always had answers.  She loaded some information onto one of her StarkPads before sending it to the monitor closest to them.  “Jacques Duquesne,” she read from a profile she created.  Duquesne’s face was there, staring malevolently at them.  Clint stared back.  “Born November 12th, 1959 in Sin-Cong, which was under French rule at the time.  Not much on him in his youth.  Apparently allied himself with the Communist rebellion in Sin-Cong in 1978.  Attended university in Montreux.  Was Sin-Cong’s fencing champion.  He attended the 1976 and 1980 Olympic games.  Won gold at both.”

“Fascinating,” Tony said sharply.  “What the hell does this have to do with him blowing the crap out of the UN?”

“You ought to know by now, Stark,” Hill returned icily.  “The devil’s in the details.  If Rogers hadn’t made the connection between Pierce and Wenham, we would have never found the insanity serum before they flooded the city with it.  Or if Romanoff hadn’t noticed Fine and List together at that convention.  So _anything_ could be relevant.”

Tony flushed, already worn too thin to hang onto his temper.  Thankfully, Sam interceded.  “Are we even sure that’s this guy’s real name?  What if it’s an alias?”

“Could be,” Maria returned.  She glanced at Clint, looking for some confirmation.  Clint wasn’t interested in confirming.  “But this is all we have to go on right now.  Unless someone has something to add.”  That was less subtle.  He still ignored it.  Hill shook her head unhappily and went back to her report.  “At some point he came over to the States.  We have an FBI file on him.”  She opened it with a flick of her hand across her tablet.  Her brow furrowed.  “What the hell?  Looks like someone sealed this almost completely years ago.  No names.  No details.  Like an outline of the story with none of the characters filled in.”

“What does it mean?” Sam asked.

Hill shrugged.  “I don’t know.  It’s not uncommon for a case to be sealed, but _every_ case in this file?  Odd.”  Before they could question her further, she was telling them what she could.  “Seems like the feds were investigating him for a string of murders and robberies from 1980 to 1990.  Dozens and dozens of them all across the country, but they never apprehended him until December 19th, 1991.  He ended up with a life sentence in Leavenworth for murdering an FBI agent.”

“Who?”

Hill shook her head helplessly.  “I don’t know.  It doesn’t say.”

“But somehow he ended up with HYDRA,” Sam said.  He grabbed a rolling chair and hauled it over, obviously too tired to keep balancing his weight on the crutches.  Bruce had patched his leg up hours ago and loaded him with painkillers.  The wound wasn’t serious, but it probably hurt as all hell.  He sat with a sigh.  “Steve saw him in Moscow.  And HYDRA probably sealed the files, redacted the data, just like they did with Strucker.”

“There’s definitely some sort of connection,” Maria said.  Her eyes glazed as she looked over what appeared to be prison records.  “Duquesne managed somehow to get parole in 2013.”  Then she frowned.  “Look who signed an affidavit supporting the parole order.”

Tony squinted, leaning closer.  “Son of a bitch.”

“Robert Stern,” Sam said. 

That was pretty firm evidence that Duquesne had some link to HYDRA, unless Stern had been tasked with releasing random inmates from penitentiaries just to cause trouble.  That seemed about as likely as Jacques having some sort of connection to HYDRA.  Never once in all the years they’d worked together had there even been the slightest hint that he’d belonged to a covert Nazi organization.  Jacques had been very much a loner, doing things his way and only his way.  That had been one of the things that had attracted Clint to him in the first place.  Acting as a soldier in HYDRA’s war…  He couldn’t reconcile that with the Swordsman he knew.  And he couldn’t get over the sad fact that if this was true, it was a pretty goddamn small world.  All the connections between Natasha’s past and Steve’s.  And now his was inexplicably pulled into the mix.

“Duquesne’s got to have some serious connection to HYDRA,” Tony said, “even more than this.  I highly doubt Strucker, if he’s HYDRA’s new head honcho, would just hand off that much firepower to a newbie.  I don’t care how evil this bastard is.  All that SHIELD and Chitauri tech?  They weren’t fucking around.  They wanted us dead or disgraced, preferably both.  They’re not going to trust that to just anyone.”

“That would make sense,” Hill agreed.  “Steve said that Swordsman was acting in a leadership capacity in Moscow.”

“Right.  We’re not talking about a drone here.  This guy’s big time,” Tony said.

“Does it matter?”  The call from the other end of the room poked its way into the conversation.  It was from Bruce.  He was standing beside some whirring equipment, a centrifuge Clint thought.  The light from his tablets reflected on his glasses, but the rest of him looked dark.  Brittle.  “We can’t leave quarantine.  Even if you find this guy, you can’t pursue him.”

Hill exhaled slowly.  “Doctor Banner, we have to operate under the assumption that whatever’s affecting Captain Rogers isn’t going to affect the rest of us.  We have to be prepared to act.  Duquesne and HYDRA have no qualms about using innocent people as leverage against us.”

“I’d say that’s the least of our worries,” Bruce returned, setting his equipment down to skewer the group with a hard look.  “If your assumption turns out to be wrong, we could have a biological disaster on our hands that no amount of guns or armored suits or… _monsters_ can fix.”  He looked flustered, helpless.  _Frustrated._   “Whatever it is, this disease dropped Steve in less than three days, in less than _twelve hours_ from when the symptoms started manifesting themselves.  Steve.  The most resilient human on the planet.  You saw it, Tony.  He wasn’t right yesterday morning.”

Tony looked unabashedly guilty.  “I forgot to have JARVIS check in on him,” he muttered, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes, like admitting that was painful.  “Maybe if I had…”

Maybe if he had.  Maybe if Natasha had said something last night.  Probably it wouldn’t have mattered.  It would have given them more time before things got this bad, but that didn’t mean that that time would have been useful.  Furthermore, _this_ was a strange thing to feel guilty about, considering it had been Stark’s stupid stunt that had gotten Steve clawed in the first place.  Bruce didn’t comment on that, though.  No one did.  No one was brave enough to.  “Look, all I’m saying is we need to be prepared for the worst case scenario here.  I still think we should alert the CDC or at least the White House.”

Hill’s expression softened, and she looked back toward the quarantine room briefly.  “How long until you know something?”

“Know _something_?  I’ll be able to tell what it’s _not_ pretty soon here.  I ran every blood panel, assay, and culture I could think of.  I anticipate they’ll all come back negative.”  Bruce looked over his work and equipment in irritation.  “The other tests need another couple of hours.”

Maria summoned up some equanimity.  No matter how grave things were, she always seemed capable of that at least.  “Then we’ll revisit this in another couple of hours.  Until then–”

“I know.  Pretend this isn’t happening.”

“Bruce.”  That was Natasha.  It was the first time she’d spoken in a while, and her voice was soft, not strained, but deadened in a way that hurt Clint’s soul.  “It’s alright.”  She closed her eyes, finally dropping her hands from the glass to the quarantine room.  Sweaty palm prints were left behind.  “Anger doesn’t make anything better.”

Bruce flushed with embarrassment, but he blew out a long breath, steadying himself if only for her sake.  His protectiveness took Clint aback a little.  When had this happened?  Banner looking out for her, caring for her, guarding her feelings.  When had she let him do that?

When had Bruce taken the only place he had left in Natasha’s life?

He shook that thought away.  Bruce turned to Thor again.  “Are you positive those Kretal creatures weren’t poisonous?”

“Yes,” Thor said firmly.  This wasn’t the first time he’d been asked that over the last couple of hours.  “I have battled them many times, and I have never seen another warrior fall into such a state.”

“How many times?” Sam asked.

Thor regarded him sternly.  “ _Many._ ”  Eons worth, in all likelihood.  “And even if this poison came from the Kretal, it is entirely likely that I am immune to it.  I mean no ill respect, but Midgardian physiology, even one so enhanced as Steven’s is, pales in comparison to mine.  I understand your need to protect yourselves, but there is no reason I cannot be in there with him to provide some relief!”

Clint could see the argument escalating again.  Over the last few hours, every time the conversation had turned back to Steve, to the explanation for why he was sick and what should be done about it, tempers had flared.  Everyone had an opinion.  Opinions weren’t a substitute for answers.  Bruce visibly deflated.  “Let’s just…  Maria’s right.  Give me some more time to try and figure this out.  I don’t like seeing him suffer any more than the rest of you, but even if I knew what we’re dealing with, it’s not worth the risk.  He’s too delirious to know you’re there.”

Natasha shuddered, curling over her belly.  She’d been working her rings nervously around her finger ever since they’d arrived, and she was at it again, twisting and twisting them.  Thor immediately moved closer, attempting to offer comfort.  Clint knew he should go to her, but he just couldn’t.  He turned away, back to the displays around them where the pictures of Jacques were scrolling and cycling.  He looked at that scarred face, so much older than when he’d last seen it.  Even harder and fiercer.  A ghost from days he didn’t like to remember.  The stink of animals and cigarettes and sweat.  People laughing and cheering.  Carnival food and sticky messes on a dirty bench.  The ring of metal on metal.  The thrill of it all.  _“You know what, kid?  You and I…  We can do things together you’ve never dreamed of.”_

 _“Clint, are you out of your fucking mind?_ Think _about what you’re saying!”_

_“Tired of people hurting me.  He can teach me to fight.  Teach me to hurt back.”_

_“When they come after you?  You go after them.  A shadow in the night, kid.  They’ll never see you coming.”_

He opened eyes that had slipped shut.  Behind him, another tense debate was starting.  He didn’t want to hear it.  “He won’t quit,” he said firmly.  For whatever reason, that silenced the team, and they all turned to look at him.  Even Natasha did, her eyes seemingly wet and hesitantly hopeful.  They thought he was talking about Rogers.  He felt like a bastard, but he wasn’t.  He wished he was.  “Swordsman.  He won’t quit.  If he’s after us–” _after me_ “–he won’t stop.”

Sam looked right at him.  “What does he want?”

“He said it,” Clint returned.  “He wants vengeance.”

Tony couldn’t contain his exasperated vitriol.  “For what?  What the fuck did we ever do to this guy?”

There was no sense in lying.  No sense in hiding.  It was all coming out now, and these people, his team and his friends and the closest thing he had to a family, deserved the truth.  “It’s because of me.”

That didn’t garner much surprise. Why would it?  Duquesne had made it pretty damn clear what he wanted.  _Who_ he wanted.  “Yeah, we got that, Barton,” Stark said.  “You wanna tell us why?  Because I’m sure as shit not in the mood for twenty questions.”

He didn’t want to.  He never talked about this.  _Never._   Not even Phil Coulson had known the truth.  Perhaps not even Nick Fury, though he’d been aware of enough of it to seal the records.  Clint rarely even thought about it.  It was too dark, too deeply disturbing.  A nightmare from a different life that he’d spent every day since trying to forget, to overcome.  To atone for what he’d done.

But they were all staring at them.  Even Natasha, her eyes firmly on _someone else_ since Steve’s collapse.  There was no going back.  “I, um…  My older brother and I, we were orphaned when our dad killed our mom in a car crash, so we ended up in the care of social services in Iowa.  That was hell, so we split and were homeless for a while.  I was fourteen.  My brother tried to get work where he could, tried to take care of me, but it was tough.  We lucked out when a traveling circus troupe picked us up.  Gave us food, a place to sleep.  Enough of a wage to live, at least, and the work wasn’t half bad.  That was where I met Duquesne.  He was the Swordsman.  A marvel with a blade, the fastest fighter in the world.  One of the top performers.  He took a liking to me because I was quick on my feet and had a sharp eye.  That was nice, you know, for a poor kid with no hope for a future.”

_“Come on, kid.  Let me show you how it’s done.  The trick is not to lean so much into the swing…”_

“Pretty soon I was practically his sidekick.  He had another pal, Trickshot.  Buck Chisholm.  He was the guy who taught me archery.”

_“Breathe out, Clint.  Let it all out.  The only way to make a shot like this is to let everything go.  You got one thought in your head that ain’t about that arrow hitting that target, and you’ve missed before you’ve even let it fly.”_

Clint sighed slowly.  They were still all watching him.  God, this was hard.  “In return for teaching me, mentoring me, I guess, they had me doing odd jobs for them.  I wasn’t stupid.  I knew what I was doing.  Stealing.  Eavesdropping.  Making hand-offs.  The whole damn circus was practically a crime ring, and it didn’t take me long at all to realize Duquesne was at its head.  But learning what I was learning was more important to me than the risk of getting caught for the petty crimes I was doing.  And I did get caught.  My brother kept bailing me out and trying to talk some sense into me, but I was slipping deeper and deeper into it.  I didn’t care.  I didn’t even care that he was going down into that darkness with me.  Pretty soon I was Duquesne’s protégé and Chisholm’s star pupil, and I didn’t give a damn about anything else.”

_“You want to run with us?  You need to be fast.  A shadow among shadows.  I can teach you everything, more than just how to handle a sword.  I can teach you to destroy your enemies.  But I can’t do a damn thing if you hold back.  If you’re with us, you’re with us.  If not…”_

“I went with them.  My brother tried to stop me.  I kicked the shit out him.  We always fought a lot.  He was older than me, bigger than me, tougher than me, and he liked to get his point across with his fist.  He was a really good guy, took care of me when no one else did, and I know he loved me, but damn if he didn’t learn that from our drunk asshole of a father.  This time, though… this time _I_ won, and I left him there bleeding and told him to stay out of my way.”

_“You walk away from me, Clint, and I can’t go after you!  You hear me?  I can’t come after you!  I won’t do this!  It ain’t right, and it’s gonna land you in jail or worse!”_

Clint closed his eyes against the memory.  “The circus was just a cover to Swordsman, a way to move from place to place, and I moved with them.  We robbed.  Burned buildings to the ground.  Ransacked and stole more things than we could ever possibly sell.  I lost myself more and more in it.  I justified it to myself.  I’d suffered a lot in my life, so it was time to get payback, time to take what I deserved.”

_“Feels good, doesn’t it, kid.  Feels like you’re making things right.  Feels like the world is yours for the taking.”_

That dark pain inside him grew hot and taut.  “But I couldn’t shut down my conscience completely, even when I tried.  I couldn’t kill.  I’d been trained to.  That was _all_ they’d trained me to do, to be a killer, but I couldn’t do it.  I could never pull the trigger, never follow through.  Duquesne told me that I was weak, that nature would take its course, as he put it, if I couldn’t man up and get it done.”  He balled his hand into a fist at his side.  “He kept giving me opportunities.”

_“Go on, kid.  Put an arrow in his lying heart.  He ratted us out, the bastard.  He deserves it.”_

The fletching of the arrow cut into his fingers.  He was shaking and shaking.  _“I can’t.”_

_“Do you know the true mark of an apprentice coming into his own?  The moment where the apprentice takes the place of his master.  This is your moment.  Take it now.”_

_“I can’t!”_

And metal sang.  Clint winced at the image in his head of Chisholm’s blood spilling on the floor beneath him.  “I could never do it.”

The room was silent.  He could feel the Avengers looking at him.  Sam and Maria.  Tony and Bruce.  Thor.  _Nat._   She had grabbed onto Thor’s elbow, pushing herself up and off the floor with a wince.  She was watching him with narrowed eyes.  In all the times they’d been alone together, in safe houses and fox holes and in bed years ago, he’d _never_ spoken so candidly of his past.  No details.  Generalities to show his sincerity.  Never specifics.  Clint couldn’t read her expression now.  Was she angry?  Surprised?  Disgusted?  That wasn’t likely, not with how dark and violent her own history was, but he feared her rejection most of all.  He’d never cared much what people thought of him, but he cared about what she thought.  And what Rogers thought.  Hell, he cared what they _all_ thought.  These people.  His team.

“So what happened?” Sam finally asked.

Clint shook himself free of his doubts.  “There’s not much more to say.  We were, uh, robbing a bank one night outside Des Moines.  Turns out the cops and the FBI had gotten ahead of us somehow.”  He knew the somehow.  Chisholm had been arrested over some stupid drug beef.  He’d cut a deal.  Duquesne had cut off his head.  “Things went south really quick.  An FBI agent was there to confront us.  Duquesne killed him.  I got away.  He didn’t.”  And now there was shock on their faces.  The implication was there, unspoken but undeniable.  He was an accomplice to the murder of a federal agent.  Considering all of the evil things he’d done and all the evil that had been done to him, maybe that should seem a minor thing.  But it wasn’t.  _It wasn’t._

They didn’t even know why.

_A federal agent.  You fucking coward._

He didn’t say anything more about it, though.  He sniffed, physically shaking himself loose of those thoughts.  “When I was hiding and they were arresting him, he swore he’d get his revenge on me for leaving him like that.  That we’d fight and see if the apprentice could take the place of the master.  And that was the last time I saw him.  That was almost twenty-five years ago.”  He looked up, almost afraid at what he’d find.  But they were all still there and still watching him.  “I went on my own for a while as a contract killer.  SHIELD caught up with me a couple of years later.  Fury recruited me, made the warrants disappear.  Sealed up the file.  Gave me a new start.”  Their eyes seemed to be heavier and heavier.  The silence that came was painful.  Clint had never faced so much silent judgment.  Even when he’d been lying and stealing, killing for money, he’d never felt so ashamed.

The quiet dragged on a moment more.  Then Tony cleared his throat.  “I don’t buy it.”  His quiet declaration crashed through the room.  Clint barely suppressed a shudder, fearing (irrationally) for a moment that Tony had somehow seen through him.  But that wasn’t the case.  “The story’s fine.  Don’t get me wrong, Clint.  It kinda makes sense given that you’re… you.”  He didn’t know whether to be insulted or relieved.  “But I don’t buy that this guy could have put this together himself.  I’m back to where we were.  There has to be a substantive link to HYDRA.  It can’t be a coincidence they’re coming after us the closer we get to them.  We’ve stirred the damn hornet’s nest.  This has to be related to Strucker somehow.”

 _Related to Strucker._   That inexplicably made it _click_.  Like two puzzle pieces coming together in his head so he could see a picture, he made the connection.  “This isn’t related to Strucker,” he said.  His eyes gained a hard glint as he looked among his teammates.  “ _He_ is.”

“What?”

An alarm suddenly wailed.  Everyone jerked, turning back to the quarantine room.  The monitors above the room flashed red.  Steve’s heart rate had skyrocketed. Inside the cell, he was flailing on the bed again, locked in another horrific seizure.  Tony swore harshly, running around outside the main area to reach the entrance to the clean room.  He was already summoning his armor.  “Banner!” Thor shouted as the doctor grabbed a few syringes from his workbench.  “Let me go in there!  You waste time donning the suit!”

Steve gave an inhuman yowl, back arching as he snapped up off the bed.  Clint winced, going to Natasha without a second thought.  She had her hands on the window, desperation bright in her eyes.  “Somebody do something!” Sam shouted, coming to stand right beside her and watch helplessly as Steve flailed off the bed.  He hit the floor hard on his side, tangled up in the sheets.  A hacking cough burst through his lips, and blood dripped from his mouth to the floor.  He seemed semi-cognizant despite the shaking, aware enough at least to try and turn himself over so as not to choke.  Perhaps that was only wishful thinking, dumb luck as opposed to purposeful.  Either way, they needed to get this under control quickly.

And Bruce was trying.  Thor, however, was adamant.  “I am better suited,” he insisted.  “Give the medicine to me.”

“You don’t have any idea what you’re dealing with!” Bruce retorted, shrugging him off and running after Tony.

“Neither do you,” Thor returned calmly.

Bruce was about to object further when Natasha turned to him with surprisingly calm, stern eyes.  “Thor’s right.  It’s too dangerous.  If Steve accidentally hits you…”  What she didn’t say was clear, but it was an echo of everyone’s fears before in the hallway after they’d returned.  They’d had no choice then.  Now there was no reason to take the risk of Bruce being hurt by Steve’s unrestrained strength and losing his control.  Not unless they had to.

And Bruce, as frustrated and riled as he was, understood that.  He tightened his jaw, his eyes narrowed and unhappy but not unyielding.  He handed the syringes to Thor.  “Gloves,” he ordered.  “And there are gowns in the clean room.  At least put one on.”

“Come on!” Tony snapped.  Iron Man was already inside, already kneeling next to the bed where Steve was seizing uncontrollably.  Thor sprinted out into the corridor to get into the clean room.  “Easy, Cap.  Easy.”  Tony had his hands on Steve’s shoulders, trying to both keep him steady on his side so the bloody mess drained from his airway and provide some comfort.  “Thor!”

“I am here!” returned the demigod as he burst into the quarantine room through the airlock.  He’d found a gown and gloves, and he raced over to Tony’s side.  “Where?”

“In the arm!”  They waited for something of a lull in the seizure to inject Steve.  The drugs did nothing.  Tony looked up, Iron Man’s eyes blazing white and accusatory.  “We need to get the fever down!”

“It’s not like Tylenol works on him,” Bruce retorted.  “Give him another dose!  JARVIS, I need ice!”

“Two rooms down the hallway, Doctor Banner.  There is a kitchen.”

Maria immediately rushed to get it.  “That going to do anything?” Tony asked doubtfully.  Clearly he wasn’t thrilled with the idea of trying to cool Steve with ice.  Natasha wasn’t either, her face paling even further and her arms tightening around her belly.  “And won’t him shivering make this worse?”

Bruce shook his head helplessly.  “No idea.  We’re dealing with too many unknowns.  All I’m sure of is the sedatives are barely doing anything.  Antipyretic drugs are a no-go, so a long shot is better than nothing.  We don’t have anything else.  A serum-powered immune system might end up being as dangerous as whatever infected him!”

“That’s a damn big ‘might’!” Tony said back.

Maria was back in short order, winded, her arms full of plastic bags of ice.  Bruce went with her out into the hall, and for a long, awful moment, Clint lost sight of them.  That left only the horrific show in front of them of Steve struggling through another seizure (or maybe the same one – it was impossible to tell).  His foot slammed into the bed, denting it, and Thor barely got out of the way to avoid being struck.  They were trying to inject him again, trying and failing.  “Come on, Steve.  Work with us here,” Tony pleaded.  Eventually they pinned him gently and quickly enough to get the medicines into his system.  “Christ, his temp…”

Clint looked up worriedly.  _106.8._   _Oh, God._

“One of you come to the back!” Bruce said over the intercom into the cell.  Thor was up, running back to the clean room.  “Don’t put the ice right on his skin.  I don’t think it could cause frostbite, but all bets are off.”

“Where?” Tony gasped.

“Armpits.  Groin,” Bruce responded.  “And if we can get this in hand, I want one of you to draw more blood.  There are more tests I want to run.  And maybe get an IV in.  He’s going to get dehydrated if we don’t get some fluids in him.”

“Jesus,” Sam whispered.  He looked sick.

Tears filled Natasha’s eyes as Thor came back with the ice.  He and Tony worked fast.  The drugs (or a stroke of good luck) had stopped the seizures, and between the two of them, they lifted Steve’s unconscious body back onto the bed.  The ice bags hit the floor with a rattle as they dropped them and moved to resettle Steve, pulling the sheets aside.  No words were shared while they used spare sheets and towels to protect Steve’s skin.  Thor looked tense and grim as he started placing the bags of ice around Steve’s body.  Steve jerked at the contact, wildly flushed with fever, eyes open but unseeing.  “Please,” Natasha whispered.  Clint overcame his own horror and set his arm around her, trying to gently tug her away.  She didn’t need to see this, didn’t need this stress.  The urge to protect her again was almost palpable, driving him.  But she didn’t let him.  “Please… _please.”_

_Please let this work._

* * *

Steve stood in a world of white.  It was vast, endless.  Ice and snow.  There was something beyond it, something he couldn’t see.  Fuzzy shadows.  Distant voices.  He couldn’t make out what they were saying.  He felt like he should know who those shadows were, that he should try to say something in return, _do_ something.  But he couldn’t.  It was too far to go, and his voice couldn’t carry even if he could get the air into his lungs to scream.  He was too far away now.  A plane diving down into this endless world of white.  This was…

This was like how he’d felt when he died fighting the war.  Frozen and alone.  _An endless winter._

“Come on, Cap.  Don’t do this to us.”

“How high is the fever now?”

“One-oh-six.”

“This is not working.  We must try something else!”

“Be patient.  There are more meds out in the clean room.  Just flood him.  Overcome his metabolism.  It’s our only choice.”

_“This is my choice, Peggy.”_

“Don’t do this.  Please don’t do this…”

No, not Peggy.  This wasn’t 1945.  This wasn’t the war.  That endless world of white wasn’t the ice shelf growing larger and larger, consuming everything he could see.  And that roar wasn’t the wind, wasn’t the _Valkyrie’s_ engines racing as he dove down toward his death.  _That’s not right.  It’s not right._

His heart pounding.  _Thunder._

“Steve, can you hear me?”

_Natasha._

He turned and saw her.  She was standing there on a wooden deck, gazing out over the sea.  She was beautiful, dressed in a white silk nightgown, skin glowing like pale starlight and hair thick as it cascaded down her back.  The wind gently sent the tresses flying, waves of russet and fire.  The clouds in the distance were huge and dark, rumbling ominously, crackling with purple lightning.  She looked back at him.  “There’s a storm coming, Steve,” she said softly.  Calmly.  “Can you see it?”

He could see it.  It seemed far away, massive and threatening, and for an eternity, all he could do was stare at it.  Inky monsters, violent and vicious, lumbering closer and closer.  _A storm coming._ It seemed far away.

But it wasn’t.

She reached her hand out to him.  “I love you.”

He reached for her.  Grabbed her hand.  Held it tight.  _Nat…_

The storm hit.  He squeezed his eyes shut, wind blasting over him, pelting rain like bullets.  And the force of the tempest ripped her away.  All of the sudden there was nothing in his hand.  Her hand was gone.  _She was gone._

“He’s seizing again!”

“Get him on his side!  Hold him!”

“What do we do?  What the hell?  What the hell?”

The cold was gone, blasted away.  Lightning flashed in his head.  It was burning and burning.  Scorching the sky.  Scorching his body.  Arcing across his brain and rushing to his nerves and down to his muscles until they were twisting and contorting and convulsing and bending his bones and he couldn’t stop any of it.  Discharging and leaving nothing but pain.  _He couldn’t stop it._

“Hang on.  Hang on.  God, someone help us here…”

“Tony, let him go.  Just let him go.  There’s nothing we can do.  He has to ride it out.”

“No!  Don’t give up!  Don’t you fucking give up!”

“Clint, get Natasha away!  That’s enough!  She doesn’t need to be here!”

“If you think that I’m leaving for _one second_ you are out of your goddamned mind, Stark!”

“Nat, please…  Listen to me.  Steve wouldn’t want you to see this–”

_Nat, don’t leave me._

The world burned.

Sometime later, he opened his eyes again.  Nothing looked quite right.  Tears.  Something thicker than tears.  Glass.  Glass between them.  “She’s going to be alright, Steve.”  _Clint._   A hand on his shoulder, firm and supportive.  He looked to the other man, found him pale and grave, face lined with pain and a day’s worth of stubble.  Eyes hollow with shock.  “The worst is over.”  He turned again, turned back to the glass and the small room beyond.  The room where Natasha lay on the operating table while Doctor Fine wearily finished the surgery that had saved her life.  The Winter Soldier had shot her.  The Winter Soldier had shot her _instead of him_.  She was so white, as white as the sheet that covered her chest, so starkly _white_ against the blood on her stomach and the blood on latex gloves and the blood in the bags dripping down through the IV lines to her body.  Tubes ran from her mouth to the machines keeping her alive.  One of them was pulsing in time with her heart.  Slowly.  It was so loud.  Echoing.

“His pulse is coming down.  Thank God.  Jesus.”

Her heart was still beating.  Heavy and dull.  Struggling.  Shaking his world.  She wasn’t going to die.  She wasn’t.

“I think the worst is over.”

“What do we do now?”

“Let’s get him changed.  Some new sheets on the bed.  These are full of blood.”

“This is killing him…”

“Do not think that.  Have faith.”

“Faith?  What the hell good is that going to do?  We’ve been cooling him for an hour like this, and his fever’s not any better.”

“This is palliative care, Tony.  A holding action.  It’s the best we can do right now.”

“God damn it…”

“Once we get this cleaned up, put the ice back.”

 _The ice._   God, he was cold.  Cold and alone in a white hospital room.  Natasha lay in a bed, those tubes still running down her throat and taped into place around slack and bruised lips.  Lips he’d kissed so many times.  She wasn’t moving.  She was so still, a statue, a lifeless doll, a husk of the woman he loved.  And it was his fault she was this way.  _His fault._   She was pale.  Ashen.  Her hand was small and seemingly delicate in his.  He knew it wasn’t really.  He’d seen what she could do with her hands, how quickly she could take a life, how much pleasure she could bring with them, how much pain.  How much she had changed every part of him that she’d touched, and she’d touched _everything_.  He couldn’t do this without her.  If she didn’t wake up…  “Don’t leave me, Nat.”

“Steve?”

“What’s he saying?”

He swept his thumb over her bruised knuckles.  Over her hand.  Over and over again.  Swept his lips onto it.  Wept onto it.  Longed to feel it on his cheek, sweet with a caress, powerful with only a brush of her skin to his.  “Don’t leave me, Nat.  Please come back to me.  Please.  Please.”

“Natasha’s right here, Steve.  She’s right here.  She’s right outside.  Look at her.”

“Steve, I’m here.  Please look at me.”

She wasn’t opening her eyes, no matter how he begged.  She’d lost too much blood.  She’d been hurt too badly.  He’d hurt her too badly.  His doubt.  His accusations.  Angry and vile in his head.  He couldn’t hold them back, even though he knew it was wrong.  “I told you not to.  I told you not to do this.  Why didn’t you listen to me?  Why?”  _You’re my life._

“What’s he talking about?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“His eyes are open.  Steve, can you see me?  Focus on my face.”

“He’s out of it.  There’s no sense in trying to talk to him.”

“Let’s…  Thor, lift him up.  Can you bring him here?  Right up to the glass.”

“Natasha, I don’t think that’s–”

 _“_ Trust me.  _Please.”_

“Please don’t leave me.”  She wasn’t waking up.  She wasn’t coming back to him.  She was gone.  And no matter how much he begged, she wasn’t coming back.

He wanted to die.  Alone in an endless, frozen world of white. 

Not alone.  He opened his eyes.  The world still didn’t look right.  But he blinked the tears caught between his eyelids away until he could see.  Glass.  Glass between them. 

And she was right there on the other side.  Whole.  Alive.  _Beautiful._   Her eyes filled with tears, and she gasped a relieved sob, smiling despite the wetness on her cheeks.  She was sitting just on the other side of the glass, her one hand wrapped around her stomach – _the babies_ – and her other pressed to the barrier between them, fingertips round and fleshy.  “Hey, baby,” she whispered.  “I’m right here.”

Steve licked his lips, trying to wet them enough to speak.  They tasted like blood, but he didn’t care.  And his hand hurt – _everything hurt –_ so much, but that didn’t stop him from lifting it.  His fingers shook, yet they were steady enough to press on the glass over hers.  “…tasha?”

“Yeah,” she said, joy and relief bright in her eyes.  “You look at me, okay?  Just keep your eyes on me.  I’ve got you.  I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”  She smiled through her tears, smiled and held him with her eyes and her heart and her words.  “I’m not leaving you.  I promise.  I’m right here, Steve.  I’m right here…”

She was right there.

He held onto her.

* * *

An hour after the worst of the fits had passed, Steve was sleeping.  Not long after he’d opened his eyes and seen her, he’d closed them again, this time in an apparently restful slumber.  Natasha had hardly moved, sitting as close as she could to the glass wall of the quarantine room.  He was right against the other side where Thor had laid him, a pillow under his head, wrapped up in sheets and blankets, calm and comfortable.  He was breathing easily.  His heartrate was no longer so badly elevated.  His fever was still high but not as dangerously high as it had been.  Thanks to an IV, he was getting a steady stream of fluids, and that had helped tremendously.  Bruce had been afraid Steve’s thrashing would make it impossible to keep the port in place, but he’d been sedate and quiet, and it was doing wonders.  This was maybe a small respite, a small mercy, but she gladly took it.

Once again, Thor had been reluctant to leave the quarantine, and he’d lingered for quite some time, helping Tony clean up the mess of soiled sheets, discarded ice packs, and tepid washcloths they’d used to try to cool Steve.  When it became obvious that Steve was peaceful and contented where he was, the demigod had finally retreated to the safety of the rooms outside.  Tony had as well, increasingly quiet and troubled.  The last attacks had worn on them all, but this was more than that, and they all knew it.  Natasha couldn’t bring herself to care.  Watching her husband suffer through all of that hell, watching him _look_ right at her but not _see_ her, had driven such terror and anger into her heart.  Stark should feel guilty.  He should _hate_ himself.  She’d caught herself glaring at him once or twice as he’d retreated back to Bruce’s side, his shoulders slumped and his gaze downcast.  Even if Steve got better – _when, because he_ is _getting better –_ Stark deserved to despise himself for a _long_ time for what he’d done to them.  She couldn’t manage much more than that, though.  Passing anger that burned quick and left her feeling unfulfilled.

Sam and Clint were right with her.  Sam was exhausted, burdened.  Seeing Steve suffer through that had worn him, as though the experience had physically sucked years from his life.  He’d gathered some food for her, a bag of chips and a bottle of water.  She hadn’t had the stomach to touch either.  He’d also found her a few pillows and blankets, something to make sitting on the cold, hard floor more comfortable.  She was grateful for that; her back hurt miserably, her tailbone ached, and every movement of either twin felt heavy and unpleasant.  They’d been thankfully quiet; she didn’t think she could take the constant reminder of what was at stake right then.  Sam was practically hovering, watching her carefully for signs of distress, and normally that would have aggravated her.  Right now she was actually comforted by it.

Clint’s fleeting presence was more upsetting.  He was dark, silent.  Troubled.  Tormented.  She knew what it was like to have the past surge back into your life and hurt the people you loved.  She knew it all too well, how uncomfortable, terrifying, and shameful it was.  How deep the damage could run.  And she might not have known the complete story of his youth before, but she knew _him_ better than anyone.  He wasn’t telling the entire truth.  She could see it in his eyes, in the tense set of his shoulders and the hard clench of his jaw.  There was something very dark and very twisted underneath his tale.  She could practically _sense_ that.  Despite everything going on, the twins inside her and Steve potentially dying on the other side of the glass, she was worried about him.  Everything she’d seen in him over the last few days, that frayed, ragged anger and blossoming depression, was coming to a head.  Perhaps this was simply a catalyst, the last spurt of fuel on a growing fire that would make it burn out of control.  Whoever Swordsman was and whatever had really happened, Clint was falling back into that fire.  It was like he was dangling over a precipice, ready to jump, and no one was there to pull him back.  Even she wasn’t there.  She didn’t think she could be.  That made her a horrible partner, a horrible friend, especially considering the number of times he’d been there for her during her darkest moments.  But she couldn’t offer another piece of herself.  Not now.  Not when Steve needed her to be strong.

Still, Clint was trying to be supportive.  He took Thor’s place on the floor beside her, his hands warm and firm on her back, rubbing gently.  But then it was as if it all became too much, and he’d get up and walk away, retreating to the shadows, going back to his self-assigned project.  With JARVIS’ aid he was doing some research, trying to find the link between Duquesne and HYDRA.  Natasha wanted to say something to him, but she didn’t know what, and her head and heart hurt too much to think.  So she only watched him go, feeling even more helpless, like another person she loved was being taken from her one moment at a time.

Her eyes were tracing his movements as he stalked away toward the corridor when she realized Steve had woken.  She turned back, and she found him staring at her.  His eyes were bleary, blood-shot and clouded with pain and disorientation.  She could see _him_ in them, though, and when she did, her heart ached in her chest and it was all she could do to just breathe.  “Hey,” she said softly.  A smile came to her face unbidden.  He blinked, the pink of his tongue coming out slowly to wet dry lips.  God, she wanted to touch him.  She _needed_ to touch him.  It hurt, a tingling, aching wish that had started in her heart and spread to her skin before settling down into her bones.  Despite the ache in her back and the pressure on her pelvis, she scooted closer and pressed herself against the glass.  “Steve, can you look at me, baby?  Look at me.”

“Nat,” he said on a breath.  His voice was weak, a strangled rasp from a damaged throat.

 _Thank God._   Thank God he was awake.  He was _there._ After the hellish ordeal of trying to get his skyrocketing fever down, she’d had no idea what to expect.  What he’d be like when he woke up.  _If_ he woke up.  “Yeah,” she said.  Her eyes burned, and the tears spilled hot down her cheeks.  She couldn’t bring herself to wipe them away.  She couldn’t bring herself to care.  “Yeah.  I’m right here.”

His eyes slipped shut again, and for a moment she feared that he’d lost consciousness or lucidity.  He hadn’t.  It was quite the opposite, in fact.  When he focused on her again, he seemed even more grounded.  “Where… where am I?”

“You’re at the Tower,” she replied.  The thought of telling him the extent of how dire his situation was turned her stomach.  He deserved to know, even if he wouldn’t be able to process it fully.  “You’re sick.  You’re in quarantine.  Do you remember what happened?”

He blinked again and again, like he was trying to focus.  Trying to clear his vision.  Trying to think clearly.  “President?”

“He’s fine,” she assured.  “Don’t worry about that.  Don’t worry about anything.”

“The team,” Steve murmured.  “Sam… Sam’s hurt.”

“He’s alright,” Natasha assured.

“I’m alright.”  Apparently Sam was back from the restroom.  He set his crutches down to the floor and quickly lowered himself with a wince he valiantly tried to hide.  Steve’s hazy eyes flicked jerkily over to him, and when their gazes met, Sam smiled affectionately.  “Hey, Steve.  How are you feeling?”

Steve grunted something that was probably a chuckle.  His cracked lips pulled into a weak smile.  “Been better…  Not gonna lie.”

Sam exhaled a shaky laugh.  “Well, you’ve looked better, too.”

Steve’s smile collapsed.  He struggled to get his gaze back on Natasha, shaking fingers emerging from the sheets and blankets to press against the glass.  “Twins?” he whispered.

Natasha fought hard to swallow down the lump in her throat so she could speak.  The anger came back, anger that they had to deal with this, with the pregnancy and the twins potentially coming any moment now, on top of everything else.  She didn’t want to think about them.  Not now.  “They’re fine,” she said quickly, hoping that didn’t betray her insecurities.  She set her fingers to the window again right over his.  “Don’t think about them.”

Steve smiled faintly.  “Kinda hard not to,” he weakly said, and there were tears in his eyes.  As pained and disoriented as he was, it was pretty obvious all the same awful thoughts were going through his head.  The twins coming while he was sick and stuck in there.  The twins coming if he…  “What’s wrong with me?”

“We don’t know yet.  Bruce is working on it.”  Sam shook his head.  “Did you get hit with anything during the battle?  Come into contact with something while you were in the building?  Anything weird?  Anything at all.”  If there’d been any hope this wasn’t some sort of alien toxin or poison, it was utterly dashed by the surprisingly certain shake of Steve’s head.  Sam’s expression fell.

Steve’s hand dropped weakly down the glass.  Tears gathered in his eyes anew.  “Sorry,” he whispered.  Natasha wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for.  Fighting when he shouldn’t have fought.  Getting slashed by that alien.  Putting them through this.  The chance that he could… “Sorry.”

“Don’t,” Natasha said, stifling her own emotions.  “Just rest.”

“Yeah.  You gotta be getting at least a little better.  This is the first time you’ve made sense in a few hours.”  Sam grinned weakly.  “I was kinda hoping you’d say something really embarrassing while you were crazy delirious and babbling your ass off so I could hold it over your head forever, but of course not.”

“Sorry,” Steve said again, closing his eyes and offering up his own pathetic grin.  “What about…  What about…”  He might have been better, but it was obvious his thoughts were pretty scattered.  “…the guy who…”

“Swordsman?” Sam offered.

Steve nodded.  “Clint okay?”

“Yeah,” Natasha said before Sam could answer.  Steve didn’t need to know how badly Clint was hurting, how shaken he was.  “He knew Duquesne from when he was a kid.  He’s positive he’s somehow related to Strucker.”

“Related?”

“Family.”  Natasha had thought the notion was crazy at first, but after seeing side-by-side images of the current Baron von Strucker and Duquesne, she had to admit there were uncanny similarities.  It seemed unlikely.  How would a member of one of HYDRA’s most prominent and powerful families end up in the American Midwest as part of a traveling circus?  Still, stranger things had happened, and if it were the case, if Strucker and Duquesne were estranged cousins or brothers or something of the like, it would make a great deal of sense why he was so involved with HYDRA now.  Why Stern had gotten him out of prison.  Why he’d been in Moscow.  Why he’d had the fire power to carry out an attack on Geneva like he had.

But she supposed part of what Bruce had said earlier was correct.  For the moment, that was neither here nor there.  Just a distraction from the real problem.  Maybe that was selfish; Duquesne (and HYDRA) was very obviously still a serious threat to the world.  But there was nothing they could do about it while Steve was sick.

Steve moaned and grabbed his midsection, curling against the glass.  Natasha jabbed her teeth into her lower lip until she tasted blood.  “Just rest,” she implored again.  “Bruce is working on it, okay?  Whatever’s wrong with you, he’ll find a way to fix it.”  Steve gasped through clenched teeth, breathing through what seemed like excruciating pain for a torturously long minute.  Sam and Natasha were completely helpless, and it was just as excruciating.  “Hang on.  You’re going to be alright.  I know you will be.  I know it.”  Natasha tried to keep her voice level, but she was failing.  How could this have happened?  One of the twins kicked her sharply, and it took every bit of strength she had not to flinch.  _Not now.  Please not now._   “Hang on…”

Steve did.  The torturously long minute ended, and he shuddered his way down the slide of relief.  His hand fell completely to the floor.  Natasha thought he’d lost consciousness again, but he opened his eyes to watery slits.  “Stark…”  He smiled, and Natasha caught a glimpse of red in his mouth.  Blood on his teeth.  “Stark owes me for this.  Not – not taking a hit for him ever again.”

Sam choked out a rough laugh.  He struggled up to his feet.  “Let me go find Doctor Banner.”

“There’s no need.”  Natasha turned to see Bruce had come up behind them.  Over the gray scrubs, he wore a lab coat.  His hair was mussed, his eyes filled with…  _No._   She wasn’t going to let herself see that.  Or the way he was wringing his hands together.  He faked a smile.  “Hi, Steve.”  He seemed to gather his composure enough to crouch at the glass.  “You’re awake.  That’s good.  How’re you feeling?”

Steve somehow kept smiling.  “Wonderful,” he quipped.

“I, um…  I have some answers,” Bruce declared.  Natasha’s heart stopped still in her chest.  “You want me to tell you in private?”

She didn’t know how to read that.  Steve didn’t, either.  His eyes opened wider and went to her.  All of the sudden, he was trying to sit up.  Trying and not succeeding too well.  “Whoa.  Easy.”  Bruce shook his head.  “Don’t tax yourself.  Just–”

“Believe it or not, seen a coupla doctors frownin’ like – like that before.  Not a fan of… of being kicked when I’m down,” Steve murmured with a rueful smile.  How could he joke at a time like this?  She wanted to hit him for being so stupid and ridiculous.  She wanted to kiss him.  She wanted to hold him.  She wanted to break this goddamn glass down and _help_ him!

But she couldn’t.  And he managed without her.  He was struggling hard, breathing harder, shaking even harder than that, but he got himself mostly sitting.  The sheets and blankets were tangled around him as he sagged against the corner of the room where the two glass walls met.  “You’re crazy, Cap,” Sam said in a mixture of awe and unhappiness.

A hand came down behind her.  Tony’s.  He looked queasy, sick to his stomach and incredibly pale.  Hesitantly she grabbed it, and he helped her to her feet.  Pain immediately radiated down her back, stiff muscles rigorously protesting the change in position after being still for so long.  She winced, and Stark let her go.  He wanted to do more, but he didn’t dare.  Clint also had obviously noticed Bruce’s emergence from the lab because he abandoned working at the computer displays.  It was clear what this was about.  “I’ll get Thor,” he announced.

A moment later he was back, the Asgardian and Hill with him.  Now the Avengers were assembled, gathered around their captain who was trapped on the other side of that glass, and every set of eyes in the room were on Bruce.  He hesitated, of course, as if they needed more indication that what he had to say wasn’t what they wanted to hear.  Anxious seconds crept away, each filled with worry and anticipation, until Banner finally mustered up the courage to speak.  “So it’s not good.  With the last rounds of tests I ran on your blood, I was able to isolate what’s making you sick.  I don’t think you were exposed to a toxin or a poison.  To me, the closest thing this looks like is a virus, but it’s not like any virus I’ve ever seen.  It’s not carbon-based.”

“What does that mean?” Sam asked.

“Everything living on earth is carbon-based.  It’s the fundamental building block of life.  Even viruses and bacteria.  This didn’t come from here, so I can’t even identify what it’s made of.  But more importantly, the immune system might not be able to, either.”

Maria shook her head in disbelief.  “So the serum isn’t doing anything to stop this?”

Bruce was torn, looking at his teammates.  “No, it’s not.  But it’s not that simple.  Maybe it could.  Maybe.  But the serum’s compromised.  This virus…  It’s somehow gotten into Steve’s DNA.  I’ve never seen anything like it.”  He was repeating himself.  That didn’t seem to be a good sign.  “There’s a silver lining to that, I guess.”  _How can there be?_   He looked back to Steve.  “Because it’s integrated with your DNA, it’s not contagious.”

Despite the gravity of what was being discussed, everyone relaxed slightly.  This was an enormous relief.  Natasha could hardly control her pounding heart.  She felt cold and tingling with the need to get inside that room, get to Steve’s side and take care of him…  “Then let me–”

“No, Natasha,” Bruce quietly said.  She glared at him.  It wasn’t fair of her to do that, but she couldn’t stop herself.  And she couldn’t understand.  “Like I said, it’s in Steve’s DNA, which means it can’t infect anyone else at this point.  And that’s pretty damn fortunate, because we’d have a hell of a bad situation on our hands if it could.  But…”  Again, he hesitated.  She couldn’t stand it.  “The chances are low, I’ll admit, but the twins share a large chunk of Steve’s DNA.  I don’t think it’s worth the risk.  You still shouldn’t have any contact with him.”

 _No._   She couldn’t believe this.  She couldn’t fucking believe this!  “I slept in the same bed with him for _three days_ before this happened!  We kissed!  We…”  She couldn’t finish.  “If I was going to get it–”

“We’re not talking about you.  We’re talking about the twins.  And it’s not a risk worth taking,” Bruce said again firmly.  “I have to insist we maintain the quarantine protocols in your case.  At least the rest of us can interact with him now.  And we don’t have to stay here.”

That was fucking small consolation, and she was about to say so when Steve’s weak voice interrupted her.  “Nat…  He’s right.”  Natasha looked to him, found him crumpling even more into the corner.  “He’s right.”

Tears burned her eyes, stinging horridly.  She _knew_ that.  She did.  But accepting it seemed impossible.  Steve was sick, and she still couldn’t be with him.  Couldn’t touch him or hold him or make anything better.  _God._  She wanted to scream.  Clenching every muscle in her chest and gut was the only way to stop herself.  She gathered her composure, gathered her wits, twisting her rings.  “You said the serum is compromised.  What did you mean?”

Bruce gathered himself, too.  “The virus is in Steve’s DNA,” he said again.  “I think it’s gotten into some of the genes that control serum.  The serum enhanced Steve’s immune system, like we all know, and it’s…”  He floundered, struggling for a way to explain something that even he clearly didn’t understand.  “Your immune system is extremely complicated, but simplistically, you can think of it like this.  There’s self, and then there’s everything else.  Viruses and bacteria and foreign bodies.  Antibodies and T-cells and leukocytes identify pathogens and body cells that have been infected by a lack of the major histocompatibility complex–”

“English,” Clint reminded sternly.

Sighing irately, Bruce went on.  “By a lack of self.”  He looked at Steve.  “The virus has changed what self is to your immune system, Cap.  Simply put, it’s turned your own immune system against you.  These episodes you’ve been having…  The virus isn’t causing them, at least not directly.  It’s your immune system attacking your organs, your own body.  It’s progressive and systemic.  As more and more of the serum is getting infected, for lack of a better term, the situation is getting worse.  Your heart and lungs are being the most damaged at the moment, but your test results are showing signs of liver failure, bone fractures, GI distress, neurological damage…  Massive cellular degeneration.”

“Wait.  You are saying Steve’s own natural defenses are what ail him?” Thor said.

“Wherever it came from, this virus is the _most_ dangerous autoimmune condition I’ve ever seen,” Bruce explained.  “The serum may have countered it in the beginning, but as the infection spread and sunk its claws into you, it’s becoming more than just a losing battle.  This is all-out war, chaos, with the serum’s own guns turned against it.  It’s not healing and protecting nearly as much as it’s actually causing damage at this point.”  He sighed again, this time sadly, and turned his remorseful gaze back to Steve.  “It’s not good.  The fever’s one thing, but your lungs are bleeding.  Your heart’s not keeping a steady rhythm.  This is…  It’s going to kill you.”

The room was hauntingly quiet, aching with the echo of those words.  No one said anything.  What could be said?  What could be said to the fact that the serum, the very thing that had saved Steve’s life so many times, that had transformed him from a frail, sickly boy into Captain America, that had protected him like an unwavering sentinel, was now the thing that was killing him?  And it wasn’t just Steve’s life the serum had saved.  All the lives Steve had saved with it.  Clint.  The serum had _made_ life inside Natasha.  Those powerful weapons against disease, that _shield…_ It had been turned against the very person it had been meant to protect.  This was somehow worse than they’d feared.  Worse than the serum simply failing.  Worse than a disease that was wreaking its havoc.  Steve’s own strength ruining him, destroying his body, _killing_ him…  How did that happen?  _How?_

Steve’s voice was quiet.  A weak shadow of what it had been.  “How long?”

Bruce winced.  He clearly didn’t want to answer.  “I can’t predict that, but if the rate of damage stays constant or increases…  A few days.  If that.”

Steve’s shoulders shook in a flinch.  His face was hidden, tucked against his arms as he shrunk into the corner of the quarantine cell.  The silence was deafening.  “Is there anything you can do?”

The question was soft, unimposing.  Asked already knowing the answer.  Bruce’s pale face scrunched up into an even more despairing grimace.  “I – I don’t know.  I’m trying.  I’m trying everything.  This isn’t my field of expertise, but I’ve got calls in to some people I trust, and I’m working on it, Steve.  I promise.  I’m not going to give up.  I’m not going to–”

Steve buried his head into his arms and choked on a hoarse sob.  The shallow thud of his back against the glass shook them all.  Bruce stopped making promises he couldn’t keep.  Instead he looked away, his own eyes wet, shaking his head at his failings.  The silence in the room was thick.  Suffocating.  Crushing.

Out of the corner of her eye, Natasha saw Tony shed a tear.  That was more than she could take.  “Get out,” she hissed.  Everyone was still, quiet, uncertain of whom she’d addressed.  Then she turned to the inventor, venom in her eyes and voice and heart.  “You don’t get to stay here and cry over this.  Get out.”

Stark went white, horrified and agonized.  He shook his head.  “I didn’t–”

“You did.  You fucking _did_.  This is your fault.”  She couldn’t stop it now.  The venom was spilling out of her body, and she couldn’t stop it.  Her eyes burned and her heart ached as it beat against her sternum.  She glared at him.  _“Get out.”_

Tony swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing jerkily as he practically trembled in the face of her wrath.  Her accusation.  It wasn’t fair.  Tony wasn’t to blame.  This had been an accident, and she knew that, too, but she wasn’t going to stop now.  _This_ wasn’t fair.  She kept her eyes on him, letting him squirm, letting him hate himself, letting him feel the _weight_ of what she was losing.  She kept her eyes on him until he nodded, until he backed up, until he followed her command and left.

The remainder of the Avengers stared at her.  She could feel their shock and grief like they were a tangible force.  Their need to do _something_.  There was nothing anyone could do.

Sam reached a hand out to her, a comforting, gentle hand.  A gesture of support.  She shook it away.  “Please don’t.  Please just…”  Hurt splayed across his face.  Across Clint’s and Thor’s.  Maria’s.  Bruce’s.  They all wanted to make this better.  _There was no way._   Natasha couldn’t stand it.  She drew a breath to try and calm herself, to try and live past this moment.  It wasn’t coming.  “I can’t right now.  Please just leave us alone.”

They did.  They all did, slipping into the shadows, melding into nothingness.  She stood there, sinking into the storm inside her head and heart, and when she looked again, there was only Steve, suffering in the hellish prison in front of her.  Then she staggered to the side of the quarantine room, where he was slumped against the glass.  “Steve,” she whispered.  She went to her knees beside the cell even though her swollen belly and stiff body decried the action.  “Steve, please.  Don’t give up.  Please.”  His face was hidden from her.  She couldn’t see him.  She needed to see him.  “Steve, look at me.  I’m right here.”  She planted her hands on the glass, leaning as far into it as possible, imagining the feel of his skin beneath her fingers, the way he smelled, the warm power, the strength…  “Steve, _please_ …”

He lifted his head like it was heavier than the world.  His eyes were fever-bright, hazy, and teeming with tears.  He groaned something that could have been a laugh.  A weak, anguished thing.  “Guess they were right,” he whispered.  “All of them.”

“What?” she whispered back.  “Who?”

“The doctors.  When I was a kid.  They always said I wasn’t gonna see thirty.”  The ones from his childhood.  The ones back in Brooklyn.  The ones from when he’d been small and ill and weak.  _No._   “I guess they were right.”  He came apart, sobbing loudly.  “Oh, God,” he moaned into his hands.  Tears streaked on the glass as he shuddered into it, as close as he could be to her.  “I’m so sorry, Nat!  I’m so sorry!”

Her own tears wouldn’t come.  They couldn’t come.  _Not now._ She wasn’t going to simply accept this.  This wasn’t it.  _This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be._ “It’s alright,” she promised.  “Hey.  Listen to me.  I love you.  _I love you._   It’s alright.  I’m here.  I’m here, and I’m not going to leave you.  Not for one second.  You hear me?  We’re going to find a way through this.  I promise.  I’m not leaving you, Steve.  I’m not losing you.  Never.”

_Never._

_Hold onto me._


	7. Chapter 7

If Tony could turn back time, he would.  He would for a lot of reasons.  This wasn’t nearly the first instance in his life where he’d thought that.  In fact, since Afghanistan, that wretched guilt, the desire to somehow make things _right_ , had constantly plagued him to some degree.  It had been guilt that had caused him to change the momentum of Stark Industries from making weapons to making the world a better place through technology and innovation.  It had been guilt (and a great deal of love) that had led him to appreciate Pepper for the beautiful, wonderful woman that she was after years of using her and ignoring that.  Guilt had driven him to change his ways for the sake of the Avengers.  Maybe it had even driven him to carrying that nuke into the wormhole; that had happened so quickly, he wasn’t entirely sure.  And the incident with the Mandarin, nearly losing Pepper…  If he could undo the series of events that had led to his home in Malibu being destroyed and Killian getting his hands on the woman he loved, he would.  He would have never trusted SHIELD.  Never have doubted Natasha’s loyalty.  Never have spent his childhood at odds with his father, too damn bullheaded and blind to realize what he’d been throwing away until it was too late.

 _Regrets.  I’ve had a few.  And not too few to mention._   He was so damn tired and nearly punch drunk with it that Frank Sinatra’s crooning voice echoing through his head made him laugh, even though he very much wanted to cry.  The laugh came out rough.  A tad tortured.  “You alright, Tony?” Bruce asked from the other end of the lab bench.

“Fucking peachy keen, jelly bean,” Tony replied, sniffling and scrounging up the last measure of his equanimity.Bruce wasn’t convinced.  Tony could feel his sharp eyes on him even as he went back to his work, feel him seeing through every sarcastic quip, every lie and deflection, every touch of anger, and every layer of self-defense.  Bruce’s gaze lingered, analyzing.  Judging.  “Quit staring.”

Bruce sighed, shaking his head as he returned to the holographic displays surrounding him.  “Do you need a break?”

 _Yes.  Very yes._   “Nope.  I’m fine.”

Again, Banner wasn’t convinced.  That was the problem with making friends.  Once you let people get to know you, they sometimes gained the capacity both to see through your bullshit and call you out on it.  But that went both ways, and Tony knew Bruce was feeling raw enough himself to let his lies go.  “Your analysis coming back with anything?”

Tony rubbed his eyes and reached for his cup of coffee.  It had gone tepid long ago, and it tasted terrible.  He glanced over the results appearing on the displays, quickly reading over the scrolling numbers and lines of text.  He knew the answer before he even fully digested what he was seeing.  He knew it because this was maybe the hundredth such simulation he’d run, working through different variations of antiviral compounds to hopefully find one that stopped the alien disease that seemed hell bent on destroying Steve’s body.  None of them had worked.  “No.”

It had been a longshot to think that _any_ medicine derived here on earth would get the job done.  These were drugs developed far from giant bug monsters and alien flora and fauna and whatever the hell else there was in Thor’s precious universe that seemed not to take well to human anatomy and physiology, so the chances of them being effective had been close to zero.  Still, Bruce had Tony running through every test he could think of on Steve’s blood and tissue samples, running projections based on previous results to determine if there was a more effective candidate compound.  Nothing.  Nothing to show for hours of work.  Whatever this thing was, a poison or a bioweapon or just some space germ as Bruce thought, it reacted to Midgardian medicine like it just wasn’t there.  Hundreds of iterations of complete inefficacy.  Part of him wanted to cry at the futility of it.

But he didn’t.  “What do you want me to try next?”

Bruce didn’t answer.  Instead he stripped off his latex gloves, tossing them into the trash.  He leaned into the lab bench, pulling his glasses from his face and setting them down on the slew of StarkPads in front of him.  He grimaced, pinching the bridge of his nose.  Tony watched him worriedly.  It felt good to be concerned about someone else, like a pleasant distraction from the knotted mess of every internal organ from his throat down to his stomach.  Bruce was fairly bent with desperation, desperation bordering on defeat.  “I don’t know.  This disease…  I don’t understand it.”

“We don’t need to understand it,” Tony said matter-of-factly.  “We just need to cure it.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched.  “Yeah, that’s a ridiculously huge pile crap.”  He sighed and shook his head, putting his glasses back on before turning back to his pads.  A few molecules were spinning on the holographic display, and the gentle, pretty motion would be lulling if not for what they represented.  “The antivirals are useless.  This thing is not exactly a virus.  It’s…”  Bruce sagged even further.  It was a rare thing that he didn’t have answers.  Frankly, Tony had never seen Bruce this flustered.  This much at a loss.  “It’s done more than just use his cells to replicate.  I wasn’t lying before.  This thing has altered his DNA.  And his DNA has integrated into its own genome, at least as far as I can decipher its genome.  These sequences here?”  Bruce grabbed at one of those wire-frame compounds, bringing it closer and enlarging it.  “These are human genes.  Whatever it’s doing, it’s tied itself into Steve.  It’s gotten into the serum.”

“So get it out,” Tony said simply.

Bruce looked aghast.  “How, Tony?  We don’t even understand how the serum works!  This is literally combining two things we can’t figure out.  Splicing two unknowns in ways we can even begin to comprehend.  The virus is a marvel, as disgusting as that is.  See this?”  Bruce gestured to another few displays with more molecules.  Tony squinted but he couldn’t make sense of it.  Not really.  And even if he hadn’t been bleary-eyed with exhaustion, there were limits to his genius.  “It’s altering Steve’s immune system to target his own cells.  It’s redirected the guns, so to speak, at _self._   I can’t explain it.”

“So you said,” Tony grumbled.

Bruce was too caught up in his own thoughts and frustrations to notice.  “It’s somehow _training_ Steve’s immune cells both to ignore antigens, including itself, while tricking them into targeting the rest of Steve’s body.  And I don’t know if that is what this virus does naturally, or if it somehow ‘picked up’ on the serum’s defenses when it incorporated some of Steve’s DNA into its own genome…  You can’t expect us to simply figure this out, at least not without time and a team of researchers and experts in genetics and virology.  We have you and me, and neither of us fit that bill.  And we don’t have any time.”

Tony randomly chose the next series of antivirals to test, given that Bruce wasn’t supplying a direction and was thus wasting the very time they didn’t have.  “What about knocking his immune system out?”

“Immunosuppressant therapy?”

“Yeah.  Radiation.  Chemo.”

Bruce shook his head.  “I don’t think any of that would stop the serum or even slow it down.  It’s made to withstand almost anything.”

 _Not itself apparently._ Tony bit the inside of his cheek in frustration.  “It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”

Bruce’s eyes clouded in thought as he genuinely considered it.  “At the doses we’d need just to overcome his metabolism and the serum’s defenses… He’s already so weak I think it would kill him.”

It was damn hard to keep motivated.  Tony’s hands flew through the holographic terminals as he started JARVIS on the next round of simulations.  “So put that on the back burner.”  Bruce wasn’t pleased by that.  Clearly he didn’t think crushing Steve’s immune system down to nothing was a viable option, even for a last-ditch effort.  But before he could argue, Tony was already moving on.  “What about the carbonadium?”

Bruce closed his mouth.  Tony glanced at him, and that glazed look to the other man’s eyes was all the indication he needed to know that he’d been thinking about it already, trying to figure it out.  Bruce was pragmatic and extremely smart, but he was also a freaking pessimist.  “We don’t…  We don’t even know how the carbonadium really works.  I was running some tests a few weeks ago with Steve, but I’m no closer to understanding it now than I was before.”

“We know there’s a way to throw it in reverse.  That’s what Omega Red was doing, sucking people dry with it.  It’s just a conduit, and the conduit goes both ways.  So maybe Steve could–”

“Who could withstand that?” Bruce immediately argued.  “Steve’s dying.  The only one of us who maybe could survive him taking that much energy is Thor, and the carbonadium doesn’t work on him.”  Even though Tony had known the carbonadium being the answer wasn’t probable, it was more difficult to stomach this rejection.  He bit his cheek harder this time, hard enough to taste blood.  “What good does saving him do if we kill someone else in the process?  And Steve would have to be willing to do it, which you know he won’t be.  _And_ it might just be putting a band-aid on something that’s hemorrhaging.”  Bruce was getting more worked up.  It was subtle, but the intonation of his voice was sharper with irritation.  He dropped his eyes back down at his data.  “We don’t know how it works, so who knows if it will even correct the problem.  It might just prolong the inevitable.”

“So fucking prolong it then!” Tony yelled.  Bruce looked up at him sharply.  “Maybe we can meter it out, give him enough to buy us some time.  Even that would be worth it.  There’s me and Wilson and Barton.  If each of us do it together – we’ve never tried that – if each of us do it _together_ , maybe it would be enough to at least give us a chance to–”

“To what?”  Bruce shook his head.  “Drag out his suffering?  This isn’t going to be a pleasant way to go as it is.”

“Christ, don’t fucking say that.”  Tony averted his gaze.  “And it’s _way_ too early to be giving up.”

“I’m not giving up,” Bruce argued.

“Sure as shit sounds like it!”

Bruce’s face softened.  “Tony, come on.  Does this look like I’m giving up?”  He gestured to the wild array of StarkPads and the displays full of Steve’s data and papers and textbooks.  The mess they’d amassed in a few hours of frantic work.  “I’m taking wild shots in the dark here because that’s all I can do.  I’m arguing with your ideas because I’m not sure they’ll work, not because I’m dismissing them.  I know we’re desperate, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to try and blindly treat something we don’t understand.  I don’t want to go charging into something here and make everything worse.”

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Tony said.  His eyes were burning again.  _Goddamn it.  Fuck._

Bruce was silent for a moment.  The quiet in the lab was heavy.  Smothering.  The machines whirred and the air recyclers hummed and the computers worked their way through the latest rounds of tests and analyses and projections.  “We’re going to do everything we can,” Bruce said firmly.  He was trying to keep his voice even and level.  Tony could tell.  “It’s all we can do.  This isn’t a contingency we even remotely planned for.  We probably should have.  But even if we could have foreseen the possibility that one of you would get struck down with some alien virus, what could we have possibly done to prevent it?”  He shook his head again, his eyes narrowing darkly.  “There are risks associated with being an Avenger.  Huge risks.”

“I know that,” Tony responded tightly.

“Ever since my accident, I have devoted myself to trying to mitigate risk.  I can’t afford it.  You guys all pressured me to come back after the mess with the insanity serum, but this is why I didn’t.  You can’t predict what’s going to happen.  Every time we go out there–”

“We’re a chemical mixture that creates chaos,” Tony interrupted.  “Yeah, yeah.  You’ve said that.  And it’s not true, and you know it.”  He set his jaw and forced himself to focus on the data streaming in front of him.  He couldn’t.  “The world needs the Avengers.”

“And those two babies need their father,” Bruce said.  Tony looked up, pain gouging into his heart.  Bruce’s expression wasn’t angry, and his words weren’t meanly spoken, but it hurt all the same.  It hurt terribly.  “They’re probably going to be born with him dead.  And he didn’t stop to think about that before he ran out into battle.  _Every_ time he ran out into battle.  He didn’t stop to think about how that would hurt Natasha.  For God’s sake, he was sick before this mess in Geneva, and even _that_ didn’t stop him.”

“He’s Captain America.  He needed to–”

“What?  Give the team a PR boost?”

“Don’t tell me you’re blaming Rogers for this–”

“I’m not blaming anyone,” Bruce insisted.  He sighed, his shoulders slumping and eyes closing wearily.  “Look, this isn’t anyone’s fault.”

“Sure it’s not.”

Bruce stared at him.  Tony didn’t have the guts to stare back.  Another uncomfortable period of silence crawled by.  “You think this is easy for me?” Bruce eventually asked.  Tony closed his eyes in pain.  “I care a lot about Natasha.  I’ve spent the last four months watching her try to come to terms with the pregnancy and marriage and all of these things she never thought she’d be able to handle.  I’m still not convinced she can handle it without Steve.  I like to think so, but if she loses him…  I don’t want to see her go through that.  And I care about Steve.  I care a lot.  I wish he had some sense of self-preservation, that he weighed the risks against the benefits and for once let someone else deal with the threat and take the hit so he wouldn’t be hurt.  It’s a chronic problem with him that pre-dates the serum, if you believe the history books.  That sort of behavior makes for a fantastic soldier and hero, maybe the best the world has ever seen, but, if you want my opinion, it makes for a horrible father and husband.”

Tony thought the two of them, with all of their faults and failings and surrounded by their fucking inability to solve anything, were probably the _least qualified_ people to be judging that.  However, he had to admit that a small part of him agreed.  Bringing children into this crazy, vulnerable world where the only protection between peace and annihilation was a team of loose cannons led by their father…  Honestly, the thought had been lurking in the back of his mind (in the back of all their minds probably) since they’d found out Natasha was pregnant.  Sure, Steve and Natasha hadn’t planned this.  But continuing to be a part of the Avengers knowing what was at stake?  How the hell would that work?  How the hell could Captain America and Black Widow balance parenthood and marriage with who they were and what they did?

The point was rather moot since Steve was probably not going to survive to see the birth of his kids (or that made it all the more salient – it was a sad mixture of both, Tony supposed).  Bruce appeared burdened and disturbed by his own argument, so he changed gears to another equally upsetting topic.  “And everyone’s looking to me for answers.  I don’t know what to say.  I can’t just make them appear.  I’ll try, but I can’t work miracles.  The very real possibility of failing here terrifies me.”

Of course it would.  Bruce was right.  Steve’s life was in his hands.  And it was so much more than that.  The fate of the team.  The faith of the world.  Romanoff’s emotional wellbeing.  The future of the twins.  What happened over the next day or two would change their lives forever in one way or another.  It was enormous, distressing, and overwhelming.

And Tony couldn’t stand Banner’s self-pitying, pessimistic bullshit.  “Yeah, well, somehow I don’t think your potential future shame really compares with being the one who killed Captain America.”

Immediately he wished he hadn’t said that, even if it was true.  Even if it was what he’d been feeling since he’d watched in horror as Steve had gone down in Geneva.  His eyes burned again.  _Fuck, I can’t do this._   He looked away, sniffing sharply to keep the sob building in his throat contained.  He wasn’t going to break apart about this.  God, he wanted to, but he wasn’t going to.  Now the silence made his skin itch, made painful, anxious energy jolt over his nerves until he was practically twitching with the effort to stay still.  _I don’t want to do this._

Eventually Bruce said, “Tony, this isn’t your fault.  It’s no one’s fault.”

“You already said that.  And it’s bullshit.  It’s not true.  It’s my fault.”

“It was an accident.”

 _Bullshit._   “Tell that to Natasha.”

“She didn’t mean what she said,” Bruce replied.  “She’s not showing it, but she’s gotta be falling apart inside.  She lashed out at you, and that maybe makes sense, but _it was an accident._ ”  Tony wiped at his eyes.  Bruce took a tentative step closer, like Tony was the one who could lose control over his emotions and turn into a monster.  _I’m already a monster.  The monster that killed those babies’ father._   He’d been responsible for some horrible things in his life.  Weapons designed and developed by Stark Industries had been used by evil regimes and terrorists around the globe to kill innocents.  And maybe that hadn’t been directly his fault either, but there was no denying that his complicity and arrogance had led to people dying.  Now his arrogance was leading to Steve dying.  There was no denying that, either.

But Bruce tried.  “You’re not to blame for Steve coming in contact with this virus.  It could have happened any time during the battle.  Just because it happened to occur after you disobeyed his orders doesn’t mean anything.  Any or all of those aliens could have had the disease on their claws.”  Logic was a piss-poor excuse for consolation.  Tony didn’t have the heart or energy to be angry about that.  “Murphy’s Law, Tony.  There are _risks_ to what we do.”  He also couldn’t muster up the will to argue against that, even though he didn’t agree.  Of course there was no way to prove that his actions in London hadn’t led to Steve getting clawed and thus to this nightmare.  But there was no way to prove that they _hadn’t_ , either, and _that_ was the point.  What was it Natasha had yelled at him that night?  _“Risks I can handle.  Necessary risks.  Not risks because you have to show-boat.”_ He’d said the same placating nonsense to her that Bruce was now saying to him about the dangers of their jobs and the fact that she simply needed to accept that.  It obviously hadn’t made her feel any better, and he could see why.

That sob kept pushing up his throat.  He could barely swallow it down.  “You know,” he said, horrified at how hoarse his voice was.  “I, uh…  I think I will take a break.  If that’s okay with you.”

Bruce looked worried.  Thankfully, he let it lie.  “Sure, Tony.  It’ll give me some time to work some stuff through by myself.”

“Cool.”

The next thing he knew, he was out in the hall.  He couldn’t remember walking there.  It was taking all his concentration to hold himself together.  His feet were moving, plodding, one in front of the other, and his brain was in a haze.  _Just get out of here.  Make it to the penthouse.  You can do it._

He couldn’t do it.  Not when he passed the entrance to the main room.  He couldn’t help but look when he did, and his pace slowed until he was stopping and staring.  It was late afternoon, but with the lights dimmed inside, nothing much looked different than it had twelve hours ago.  Nobody had moved from when Natasha had thrown him out.  Not really.  Somebody had gotten a cot from somewhere, and that was pushed against the quarantine cell.  Natasha herself was lying on it, a blanket draped over her form.  Her back was to Tony, so he couldn’t see if she was sleeping (or the uncomfortably large swell of her stomach).  And he couldn’t really see Rogers, although even money said he hadn’t moved.  There was a nest of sheets and blankets on the floor on the other side of the glass, a few lines and lumps that looked like legs among them.  Thor sat with his back to the window of the cell, muscled arms draped over his knees where they were tucked close to his chest.  His eyes were shut, but it was obvious he was not sleeping.  Neither was Wilson where he slouched in a rolling chair with a blanket over his lap and legs.  Barton was nowhere to be seen.  It was silent as a grave.

And Tony wanted to go in.  He desperately wanted to.  He wanted to see if Steve was okay, if he was still alive ( _of course he is, you dumbass_ ).  He wanted to see if Natasha still had so much hatred in her eyes.  He wanted to see if the others were blaming him as much as she was, as much as he was blaming himself.  But he was a fucking coward.  With the door shut so tightly between the hallway and the room inside, he knew they couldn’t hear him take the easy way out.  “JARVIS,” he said in that same throaty murmur that rang of tears he was trying not to cry, “how’s Rogers doing?”

“Captain Rogers is unconscious,” JARVIS responded.  “His temperature fluctuates in a range from 104 to 106 degrees Fahrenheit.  His heart and respiration rate remains elevated.  Shall I report his exact vital statistics to you?”

“No.”  He supposed it was plain fucking lunacy at this point to hope the serum would just _fix_ itself and that Steve would overcome this on his own.  But that was the entire problem, wasn’t it?  The serum couldn’t fix anything this time.  The serum _was_ the issue.  Tony closed his eyes against his throbbing migraine.  “J, can you put me through to – no.  Wait till I get upstairs.”

“Yes, sir.”  The trip to his penthouse went by in that same miserable blur.  He knew he was moving, but he didn’t care enough to pay attention to his feet.  He didn’t care to keep track of the floors as the elevator flew by them.  He was on autopilot, and if it hadn’t been for JARVIS guiding him as usual, he might not have ever made it home.  “Is now a good time?” the AI asked as he crossed the threshold to the penthouse.  “It is lunchtime on the West Coast, and she is in between meetings.”

Tony sagged into the door as it closed behind him.  “Christ,” he whispered.  The burning in his eyes turned unbearable, and it took a few seconds of measured breathing to get himself under control again.  “Yeah.  Audio only.”

A moment later, Pepper’s calming voice resounded through the painfully empty room.  “Tony?”

He couldn’t make his mouth work.  It had gone painfully dry.  “Hey, Pep.”

Any chance of hiding the truth went out with that.  She heard the pain.  After they’d secured Steve in quarantine, Tony had called her to explain what had happened.  Of course she’d seen the footage from Geneva (at this point there weren’t too many people in world who hadn’t), and he’d wanted to assure her that Steve was alive and the rest of the team was okay.  That he was okay.  She’d wanted more information, but he hadn’t given it.  He hadn’t wanted to worry her, not until they knew something for sure.  Now they knew something for sure, and he’d dawdled and denied and found excuses not to call her because he _knew_ there was _no fucking way_ he could handle admitting everything to her.  Not to her.  Not to the one person in this whole world for whom he wanted not only to be a good man, but to be the _best_ man he could be.  “Oh, God, Tony.  How bad is it?”

He managed to answer.  “It’s bad.”

“Is Steve…”  She couldn’t finish what she wanted to ask.

“He’s sick.”  That thankfully came without too much of a fuss.  “It’s not contagious, at least, but it’s doing a pretty nice number on him.”  He gave a hoarse chuckle, though there wasn’t a single part of this that was even remotely funny.  “We’re…  Um.  Bruce and I are trying to work on it.  We should be able to work on it, right?  I mean, he’s a genius.  I’m a genius.  That’s, like, genius-squared.  That should be all we need.  A pair of noodles as awesome as ours should be enough.  The smarts compound on each other.”

“Tony,” Pepper said.  Her desperation, her love for him, reached across the line, across the miles between them.  He sunk down the door until he was on the floor, his strength failing him magnificently.  The tears that had been pooling in his eyes for hours seeped free, burning hot trails down his cheeks.  He could almost imagine her beside him, her soft hands on his jaw, in his hair, brushing away the embarrassing weakness from his face without a moment of hesitation.  He could almost feel her.  That made the pain worse.  “Tony, take it easy.  He’ll be alright.  He’s Captain America.  It’s alright.  Really.  You fix things, Tony.  You can fix this.”

Tony laughed again.  “I fucked up, Pepper.  I can’t fix it.”  That sob loudly broke its way through his lips finally.  “Oh, fuck, Pep.  Pep…  I can’t…  He’s…”

Suddenly she realized what he couldn’t say.  He could hear her breathing on the other end of the line more harshly than she had been moments before, as if she, too, was struggling to keep it together.  “Oh, my God…”  Tony squeezed his eyes shut, wracked with a full body shudder.  “Is…  Is he going to die?”

Answering that was more than impossible.  He faltered, the words sticking in his throat like they were glued to the back of it.  The words slammed about his head, battering his skull, demanding to be freed.  _Yes.  He’s going to die.  I made the worst mistake I’ve ever made.  I killed Captain America.  I killed Black Widow’s husband.  I killed the twins’ father.  I killed him.  This is my fault.  I’d give anything to change it.  This is my fault.  This is my fault._   “No.”

That was all that came out.  _No._

* * *

It took a while to put himself back together.  Pepper helped from afar as much as she could.  She even offered to cancel the rest of her business trip and return to New York early to stand at his side.  There was no disgust in her voice, no accusation.  She never absolved him, but neither did she affirm his guilt.  She simply accepted.  This had happened, and Tony was partly to blame, but it had been an accident.  And he was doing everything he could to make it right.  He _would_ make it right somehow.  She had faith in him.  There’d been times in their relationship where she hadn’t, where he’d failed her or disappointed her, but here and now, her belief in his ability to make this right was for some reason unwavering.  He wasn’t sure if that made it worse or better.  He let himself believe it was better.

He showered.  Shaved.  Brushed his teeth.  Took inventory of a slew of new bruises, both from the battle and from a delirious Captain America pummeling him a few times.  Even with Iron Man, those wayward blows had hurt.  He found a clean pair of jeans and a fresh shirt to wear.  Maybe it was selfish to be taking a minute to take care of himself while time was draining away, but it felt good to be clean and somewhat revitalized.  Energy burst through him, and he wanted to get back to work.  “Might I advise a nap, sir?” JARVIS suggested as Tony finished up getting ready.  “There have been no changes in Captain Rogers’ condition, and many of Doctor Banner’s tests are still running.  Therefore you have no need to rush back to the lab.”

Despite how exhausted he was, the thought of trying to sleep with his brain running wild like it was and his heart aching to _do_ something was decidedly unpleasant.  So he shook his head at the bed and headed out of the penthouse.  “I do not wish to be forward, but perhaps it would be wise to rest while you can,” JARVIS said again.  “Contrary to your opinions, exhaustion is not typically conducive to logical thinking.”

“Can’t sleep,” Tony said stiffly.  “And you are being forward.  Stop bugging me.”

“Yes, sir.”

The ride down to the lab proceeded in silence.  It was all still there, of course, but he’d pushed it down.  The guilt and shame and anger and grief.  He’d pushed it down with the punishing spray of the scalding shower.  He’d pushed it down with his new clothes and this mask of recovery.  He’d buried it under Pepper’s faith.  He clenched his jaw, fingers furling and unfurling at his sides with anxious energy.  He was going to get down there and work.  There was an answer.  He and Bruce would find it, and Rogers wouldn’t die.

The elevator stopped on the quarantine floor.  He stepped out and walked briskly past the main room, not even glancing inside.  “JARVIS?”

“Captain Rogers’ condition is still unchanged, sir, as it was a few minutes prior.  You seem very worried.  Perhaps it would ease your mind if you reassured yourself of that in person.”  Tony had expected some sort of sarcastic tone considering he kept asking and it was pretty damn obvious he was too much of a chicken shit to actually check on Steve himself.  However, JARVIS was purely suggestive, and given his propensity to call Tony out on his stupidity, that seemed odd.  “Or perhaps you should aid Mr. Barton in his research.  He is still searching for a link between the Swordsman and Strucker.  He is having a rather difficult time concentrating, so relieving him so that he might rest could–”

“Are you trying to stop me from going into the lab?”  JARVIS paused like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.  That was pretty much all the confirmation Tony needed.  He picked up his pace, a combination of confusion and concern prickling over him.  The doors to the lab were shut when he got there, and as he approached, they didn’t automatically slide open.  “JARVIS, what the hell.”

“Sir, please, Doctor Banner requested privacy–”

“To do what?”  This didn’t sound good.

“–and I am merely trying to honor his wishes.”

A thousand awful thoughts went through his head as he stood at the locked doors.  He knew they were all crazy, crazy thoughts that Bruce was trying something he didn’t want anyone to see, that Bruce was doing something stupid and desperate, but he couldn’t shake the feeling.  He shouldn’t have left.  He’d been so caught up in his own misery that he hadn’t even stopped to wonder if Bruce was capable of handling his own.  “Open the doors.”  His order went unheeded.  Tony gritted his teeth in frustration, trying to keep his already wearing temper in check.  “Open the damn doors.  I own you and I own this lab and I own the whole Tower.  Do it.”

The doors slid open, and Tony burst inside.  He didn’t know what to expect, but what he saw surely wasn’t it.  Bruce stood in the center of the lab where the holographic terminals were.  They were alive, brightly displaying those molecules from before and all sorts of accompanying charts and figures and graphs.  Numbers and words and test results danced in the air, and Bruce stood in the middle of it all, moving his hands like he was conducting a symphony.  And he was talking to someone.  “–this is a long shot.  A really long one.”

“I think it will work,” came the response.  It was a woman’s voice, low and melodic but full of certainty.  “If you can find a pure sample of the serum.”

“Where are we going to get that?”

“A blood sample from before he got infected could be a start.”

“A start.  We’d need a lot more than just one blood sample,” Bruce returned.  “A lot more.  Even if we had one, which I don’t think we do.”

“I still think we should explore you as a–”

“Ahem.”  Tony cleared his throat.  That jerked Bruce right out of his conversation, and he ripped around, not quite alarmed or angry (thank God) but definitely unhappy with the intrusion.  His face tightened into an irritated frown, and he stepped to the side in an attempt to block the image in front of him.  It was too late.  “Doctor Ross, I presume.”

The woman on the video call didn’t seem to know whether to smile or frown.  She chose smiling. It was a weak thing, weak with concern, and it didn’t reach her blue eyes.  “Tony Stark,” she said by way of greeting.  “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All good things I hope,” Tony quipped humorlessly.  The expression on Betty’s face suggested that wasn’t entirely true.  A small part of Tony was affronted, but he could understand.  He didn’t know much about Betty Ross.  Bruce rarely talked about her.  However, what he did know suggested she was incredibly protective of Bruce.  Loving.  Willing to do anything for him.  A pure heart and fiery beauty and blazing brilliance.  She’d apparently cut off all ties with her father over his efforts to capture and weaponize the Hulk for the US Army.  And Bruce’s decision to keep his distance from her, to keep her safely at arm’s length, meant she didn’t know much about the environment in which he was currently living.  One might think rooming with the Avengers and Tony Stark in particular was probably fairly stressful (and aggravating).  Therefore, some wariness was warranted.

Tony stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets as Bruce minimized the data floating around him with a brush of his hands.  An awkward moment of silence followed.  “Don’t stop brainstorming on my account.”

Bruce sighed, as if submitting to the fact that his secret that he’d tried to keep from Tony and the team was out.  That he still talked to Betty.  Still had contact with her.  Regularly.  Tony couldn’t help but wonder how many of his little trips over the last two years hadn’t actually been out of the country but rather straight to Culver University.  “I contacted Betty earlier this morning when it became obvious what it was we were dealing with.  There’s no one in the world better with molecular biology and genetics than she is.”  Betty’s reticence about continuing this with Tony present was eased by Bruce talking, the tense frown sliding from her face.  And despite this sudden turn of events, Tony was eased by her involvement.  He’d never met her before, but he knew how bright and wise she was.  Anyone Bruce loved like this would have to be.  “She…  Well, she’s been looking over the data and she thinks she might have something.”

That made Tony’s heart jump in a jolt of excitement.  He knew he shouldn’t latch onto that so fervently, but hope was hope, and he rarely felt so in need of some.  Again, though, both Banner and Ross seemed hesitant to continue.  He could hardly stand it.  “Well, don’t keep a guy waiting.  Spill the beans.”

Betty pressed her pink lips into a thin line.  “I don’t think there’s much hope for discovering a way to neutralize the virus.  It’s unlike anything on earth, unlike anything I’ve ever studied.”

“And, like I said, whether it’s part of this virus’ replication process or not, it’s managed to combine its genome with Steve’s DNA and thus with the super soldier serum,” Bruce said, “which makes this even more difficult.”

“Understanding it would take far more than what we have in terms of time and manpower.  Captain Rogers will be long dead before we unravel it,” Betty went on.

Irritation prickled through Tony anew.  “Yeah, we’ve already covered the insurmountable odds aspect,” he said sharply.  Neither of them appreciated that comment if their glares were any indication, and Tony forced himself to rein it in.  “Sorry.”

Betty seemed genuinely sympathetic.  She continued without complaint in a gentler tone.  “The virus has ‘infected’ his immune system, turned it against his own body.  And given how strong and enhanced his immune system is, it’s killing him.”  _Thanks for the recap._   Tony kept that snide comment to himself.  “But there are signs not all of his immune system is contaminated.  Bruce was able to isolate some leukocytes–”

“White blood cells,” Bruce offered.

Tony glared at him.  He knew what leukocytes were.  “–in the blood samples from Captain Rogers that don’t seem to be altered by the virus.  What’s more, they’re actually recognizing the infected immune cells and attacking _them._ ”

Hope came again, even stronger than before.  “Wait.  So Cap’s body _is_ fighting this?”

“Barely,” Bruce corrected.  “Less than five percent of the leukocytes we analyzed were undamaged by the virus.  And that was from samples we took hours ago.  The latest round of tests on recent samples showed even less.  Two percent.  It’s not enough to stop this.  It’s not enough even to slow it down.  My guess is this virus sort of _hid_ itself with Steve’s DNA from his body’s defenses while it went to work altering the way his immune system works.  That would explain why he didn’t get sick right away.  And by the time things started to go wrong, it was already too late.”

Tony’s eyes glazed with thought as he considered this.  “All his guns had already been redirected at himself before his body realized there was a war breaking out.”

“Something like that,” Bruce agreed.

So this wasn’t good news.  Well, not as good as he hoped, but he quickly realized it was something.  Once more, he latched onto it.  “But if you’ve isolated some unaffected cells, can’t you compare them to the infected ones?  Even if you don’t understand how the serum has enhanced things, you should be able to see the differences.”

“Again, that would take more time than Captain Rogers has,” Betty said.

“And, actually, Betty doesn’t think it matters,” Bruce added.  He glanced at her, offering a faint, grateful smile that she returned.

“Meaning what?” Tony prompted after a beat.

Betty was completely confident of what she had to say.  It was comforting.  “Meaning that _how_ this virus is working is irrelevant.  We already have the tools to defeat it.  The serum.”  _What?_ Now she looked a bit more excited, more exhilarated by her own thought process.  “It’s doing _exactly_ as it should.  It’s identified the virus as an antigen and is creating antibodies for it.  That’s in addition to destroying cells affected by it.  The serum is working.It’s just not doing nearly enough.”  Tony didn’t quite follow for a moment, his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed in confusion, so she went on.  “So much of his own immune system is compromised and being turned against him that it’s too late to hope that it will come through.  And I’ve tried to locate the antibodies his immune system is making, but they are so weakly concentrated that I can’t.  Even if I could, I don’t know that we could replicate them.  But, again, I don’t think it matters.  We don’t need to understand how the serum works.  All we need to do is find a way to reproduce it.”

Tony laughed.  It was raw and harsh.  “Like that’s any easier?”

“Not reproduce Project: Rebirth,” Bruce amended, giving him a reproachful look.  More than anyone, he knew how difficult and dangerous that prospect was.  “No.  What we need to reproduce is a sample of serum-enhanced immune cells.  We need a pure sample of them, one untainted by this virus.  If we can kick-start his immune system with an infusion of healthy immune cells, it might be enough.  His body already has the weapons it needs to defeat this.”  He glanced at Betty again, and another moment of silence came.  This one was more hesitant, their idea dangling in the quiet, searching for purchase and protection.  “Honestly, this is all we’ve got.  If we can manage to get a large enough sample of serum-enhanced white blood cells and T-cells, we can expose them to the virus and synthesize an antiserum.” His expression darkened.  “Mind you, there’s no way of doing this without taking out his immune system.”

“I thought you said that would kill him,” Tony said tightly.

Bruce looked torn and apologetic.  “His immune system is the problem.  We need to shut it down as much as we can without killing him.  Once it’s dead, we’ll flood him with an antiserum that has antibodies to the virus and transplanted immune cells from a donor source.  Reboot his body, in effect.  Hopefully that works.  Give the serum what it needs to defeat the infection and repair itself.”  He let his hands slap against his thighs in exasperation.  “I don’t know what else to say.  It’s risky and it’s dangerous, but we think it’s Steve’s only chance.”

This _seemed_ like a real plan.  Something that could work.  Something with merit.  _Steve’s only chance._   Tony’s pulse picked up, and his skin tingled with anticipation.  This could be the way to save his life.  Only…  “Where are we going to get a sample of serum-enhanced immune cells?”

Bruce’s hopeful expression collapsed.  He glanced between Tony and Betty before settling on Betty.  “Well, that’s the problem.  There aren’t any options.”

Betty shook her head.  “Bruce–”

“ _No._ ”  The firmness of Bruce’s tone was striking, and Betty immediately stopped with whatever she’d been prepared to say.  This seemed like a continuation of an earlier debate.  The two of them held each other’s gazes, and even though Betty had backed off, her eyes held confidence, certainty, and just a hint of admonishment.  Bruce sighed sharply.  “What’s inside me is not the answer.  It’s _never_ been the answer.”

“You don’t know that–”

Bruce shook his head, folding his arms over his chest obstinately.  “I do know that.  My blood’s already proven dangerous on more than one occasion.  And we don’t know how my immune system will react in this situation, either.  I have _no interest_ in introducing yet another complex unknown into this situation.”

Betty looked long-suffering.  Tony couldn’t imagine how this was for her.  Banner’s issues were numerous, all wrapped-up in a nice looking bow of superficial control and normalcy and a hell of a lot of self-deprecation.  His tendencies to run away were undoubtedly stressing their relationship (whatever it was at this point.  Friends?  Colleagues?  Lovers?  Tony hoped it was the last one.  Bruce needed that, needed a way to unwind, needed someone who wasn’t afraid to touch him and be touched by him).  Surely it was difficult for her, but her calm was implacable.  It had to be.  “It’s an option.  The Hulk’s immune system is probably even stronger than Captain America’s.  And simply because the immune cells come from you doesn’t make them dangerous.  You’re not poison.”

Bruce looked like he wanted to argue more, but he didn’t.  “How are you planning on getting them?  Asking the Other Guy to hold still while you take a blood sample?”

“If we have to,” Betty responded, and the tone of her voice suggested she was absolutely serious about that.

Looking patently frustrated, Bruce averted his eyes and clenched a fist on the lab bench.  Tony had some experience dealing with him when he was this riled and intransigent, too, so he changed the subject.  “What about Thor?”

Thankfully, Bruce pulled himself out of his dour mood with only a little lingering brooding.  “Not likely.  Again, it’s adding another layer of complexity.  Asgardian physiology is different enough from our own that I doubt it will work.  But it’s worth a shot.”

“What about the serum Natasha has?  The Red Room one.”

Bruce shook his head.  “It’s not nearly close enough to the original serum.  And it’s too weak.”

And then it occurred to him.  “Christ,” he whispered.  “What about the twins?”

“The twins?” Betty repeated, her face crinkling in confusion.  Then she went lax with horrified understanding.  “So what the media’s saying is true.  Black Widow’s pregnant.”

Bruce clenched his jaw.  “It’s not an option.”  The tone of his voice suggested this was not up for debate.

Debating, however, was what Tony did best.  “No, it _is_ an option,” he returned.  “It sounds like the ideal option, actually.  Why weren’t we discussing this hours ago?”

“Because it’s _not_ an option,” Bruce said again more firmly.  “We don’t even know the genetic make-up of the twins.  Not for certain.  All we know is there are traces of the serum in Natasha’s blood.”

“Traces of the serum,” Tony said.

“Not nearly enough.”

“But the twins are producing the serum.  At least one of them is.  You said we need a pure sample.  We’re not going to get any purer than Captain America’s children.  We’re not going to get any closer to a DNA match than that,” Tony said.  Bruce was staring at him like he’d sprouted an additional head.  And it was because he was actually talking about this, defending it, _suggesting_ it, not because of the idea itself.  It was pretty obvious Bruce had been thinking about this for a while and had dismissed it.  Unilaterally.  “It’s a gold mine of potential.  They themselves could be a fountain of serum for all we know.”

Bruce gritted his teeth, and his eyes flashed.  “It wouldn’t be enough.  We’d need more than a few drops of blood here.  We’d need more blood than a baby can produce.”

Tony felt his own temper flaring in the face of resistance.  “Well, then there’s the possibility of getting stem cells from the umbilical cords, isn’t there?”  Bruce flushed, and his hands tightened further.  Tony tried not to be daunted.  There was something very raw about the other man, something dangerous.  Something extremely protective of Natasha.  This was hardly the first time Tony had noticed that, but it was the first time it had been so obvious and ardent.  Unabashed.  Still, whatever Bruce was feeling, this wasn’t the time or place.  This situation needed objective perspectives, logic and cold reasoning, not emotions.  Emotions would continue to do them all ill.  So Tony pressed.  “Isn’t there?”

“Yes,” Bruce conceded hotly, “there is.  But stem cells, even if they’re enhanced by the serum, aren’t going to be enough, and we would need months to prepare it.  We need to transplant an army of serum-enhanced immune cells _right now_ , not grow one.”

“How close is she to delivering them?” Betty asked.

Clearly Bruce didn’t want to answer, but he did.  “It could be any day now.  They’re fully developed and extremely healthy.”

“Then you can induce her,” Tony said, “and we can get started.”

“No,” Bruce snapped.  “No.”  He sighed and shook his head.  Tony wanted to hit him.  Smack some damn sense into his head.  What the hell was this?  Where was the genius who saw science above everything else?  “Look, it’s too dangerous.  The quantity of serum-enhanced blood we’d need…  It’s not going to be _enough_.”  He was just repeating himself.  “They’re good-sized for twins, but they’re still only six pounds or so.  Six pounds.  They’d be neonates.  I don’t feel comfortable endangering either one or both of them by drawing the quantity of blood we’d need.  It would be extremely risky to them.”

“Could be.”

“Is.”

“But it could work.”

“I don’t know.”

Tony bristled.  “You’re a goddamn broken record, you know that?”  Again Bruce’s eyes flashed in warning.  “At least tell Natasha this is an option.  It doesn’t matter if its chances of success are low.  This isn’t our decision to make.”

Vehemently Bruce shook his head.  “No.  No, I can’t do that to her.”  Tony’s jaw fell open.  This was _bullshit._ “I can’t make her choose between the possibility of saving Steve or keeping her children healthy.  That’s not fair.  Could you do that?”

“I’d want to know _every_ option that’s on the table,” Tony returned, “not have someone with my, quote, _best interests at heart_ making decisions for me.  I’d want to know what my choices are, even the shitty ones.  I’d want to know everything!”

“Why, so she can tear herself up more than she already is?”  Bruce was getting more and more agitated by the second.  Engaging in a debate like this wasn’t wise under normal circumstances, but now they were both so tired and wrung-out and emotionally drained.  “I won’t put her in that position.  I can’t.  I’m not going to have her make that choice, Tony, and get her hopes up on top of that only to have them crushed when it doesn’t work and she’s maybe hurt her children only to have it fail.  I’m not doing it!”  His face softened slightly.  “And you know Steve wouldn’t want it.  They’re his children, too.  He wouldn’t want their lives threatened for his sake.”

That was a dick move, using Rogers against him like that.  “Steve’s fucking out of his mind delirious,” Tony retorted hotly.  “Steve’s _gone_.  He’s been lucid for all of twenty minutes in the last twelve hours.  It’s her decision, no matter how difficult it is.  And it’s our responsibility to give her the information and opportunity to make it.”

Bruce’s eyes went _green_ and he practically snarled, “Oh, get off it, Tony!  This isn’t about her or Rogers or anyone!  It’s about _you_.  You’d do anything to make this right, wouldn’t you, and you don’t give a _damn_ about who gets hurt in the process.”  Fear (and pain) rushed over Tony, and he inadvertently took a step back as Bruce stalked closer, his shoulders hunched and his scowl vicious.  “Well, allow me to let you in on something.  You calling the shots is what got us in this situation _in the first place._ ”

The room turned quiet.  Absolutely quiet.  Tony couldn’t breathe.

“Bruce, stop.  Stop.”  Betty’s cool, calm voice shattered the seemingly unbreakable tension.  At first, her call didn’t seem to get through to Banner, and despite the fact that he and Tony were the same height, he seemed to loom over his friend.  Loom and threaten.  “Bruce, listen to me.”

Slowly, painstakingly slowly, Bruce regained his control.  He breathed through his anger, his frustration, and like a spring uncoiling, the rigidity of his muscles faded.  When he came back to himself, he almost staggered into the lab bench.  “Sorry,” he murmured.  “Sorry, Tony.  I shouldn’t have…  I’m very sorry.”

The apology didn’t begin to soothe Tony’s riled nerves or calm his aching, racing heart, but dragging this out was utter lunacy.  And Bruce was right.  Did he really not care about the health and vitality of the twins?  Was he really willing to endanger them just to make this right?  Save Steve’s life so he wouldn’t have to feel so damn guilty?  He didn’t want to consider the answers to those questions.  His mouth was moving of its own accord.  “It’s alright.  This, uh…  It’s not easy.  Sorry.”

“Sorry,” Bruce stammered again.

Betty just watched them.  Tony didn’t quite have the strength to do more than glance at her.  Neither did Bruce.  He was breathing slowly, deeply, still very much shaken but not quite on the edge.  Betty finally sighed, chewing her lower lip in dismay.  Her thick brown hair spilled over her shoulders as she shook her head.  “I’m coming.”

“What?” Bruce said, whirling.  “No, don’t–”

But she’d already ended the call, and her image winked away into nothingness.

The two of them lingered in a shocked silence for a while, the heavy pall of everything smothering them once again.  Tony couldn’t make himself move.  Neither could Bruce.  He stood stiffly against the work bench, bent with exhaustion and defeat.  With just how close he’d come to losing it.  “Those twins…  Maybe this is stupid, but I feel like they’re my responsibility.  I’m her doctor.  I’m _theirs._ ”  _You’re Steve’s, too._   The thought came unbidden, but Tony didn’t dare say it.  Now was hardly the time to play devil’s advocate.  Now was hardly the time to compare the best interests of one patient to another, to weigh the worth of a man against his progeny.  “And I feel like…  I know, believe me I do, that it’s not the case at all, but I feel like they’re something _good_ that I’ve touched.  I’ve cared for them, seen them grow, seen them turn a woman who was broken turn into someone who can be something _more_ , something better and pure…  I want to protect that, Tony.”  He sighed, and his voice faded to a weak murmur.  “Maybe that’s just as selfish as wanting to make this right.”

 _I don’t know what’s selfish anymore._   So Tony just swallowed down that sob itching in his throat again and sniffed loudly, rubbing at his nose in an attempt to hide the fact he was wiping his eyes.  The silence threatened again.  He didn’t let it return.  “Well, let’s, uh, stick that idea on the back burner, too, while we keep thinking.  Stick it back there with the Hulk serum and nuking his immune system and the carbona…”

Bruce turned to him when he didn’t finish.  “What?”

Tony’s eyes widened.  “A sample of Erskine’s serum.”

He didn’t have to say more.  Bruce and he were very similar, after all, and he simply came to the same conclusion.  Bruce’s face went completely white with the realization.  “Barnes.”

* * *

For the first time in hours, Stark had the guts to show his face in the quarantine room.  Sam figured he’d eventually come back.  Of course it would be at a time like this, when Steve and especially Natasha were both sleeping.  Tony would skulk back in to make sure they were both okay, because even though he could be something of a narcissistic ass and even though he’d screwed up and caused the accident that had started this nightmare, he was a good guy.  A decent guy who always tried to do the right thing.  This wasn’t to say that Sam couldn’t empathize with Natasha, because he did.  He whole-heartedly did.  But this mess wasn’t black and white.  Culpability wasn’t clear (or relevant, Sam thought, but an obvious outlet for everyone’s bleeding, raging hearts).  If Natasha wanted to blast Tony for what he’d done, then more power to her.  They could sort this shit out and apologize when Steve got better.

At any rate, Sam had been expecting him to return, but not like this.  Stark barreled into the room in a frenzy, Banner right on his tail.  His quick eyes devoured the scene in front of him.  “We need to have a team meeting right now.  Like _now_ now.  Where’s Barton?”

Sam was already halfway out of the uncomfortable chair, his butt sore and his back complaining and his leg on fire.  He ignored all of that.  “What’s goin’ on?  And keep it down.  She just went to sleep like an hour ago.”

Tony glanced to Natasha’s slumbering form on the cot Thor had dragged into the room, his face frozen with pain for a moment.  Then he turned back at Sam.  “I’ll explain in a sec.  J, where’s–”

“In the spare lab down the hall,” JARVIS answered.  “Ms. Hill is there as well.”

Thor himself had risen to his feet.  “Shall we wake Natasha?”

“No,” Tony said quickly, too quickly in Sam’s opinion than to be anything other than self-preservation.  “No.  She can’t do anything to help us with this, so let her be.  Come on.”  Sam found himself glancing to Bruce for confirmation, and the doctor nodded before following the Tony out of the quarantine room.  He didn’t feel good about leaving Steve and Natasha alone, despite the fact that JARVIS would surely alert them if either so much as stirred.  He grabbed his crutches and limped after the rest of the team, sparing his two friends a look as he passed.  Natasha was peacefully asleep, her face relaxed in a pleasant, hopefully restorative slumber.  Steve, on the other hand, looked awful where he was still cocooned in the blankets, sheets, and pillows on the floor.  His eyes were sunken.  His skin was absolutely ashen.  He was wheezing.  He wasn’t going to die.  Sam was damn certain of that.  But he was suffering, and it _hurt_ to sit here and do nothing while that happened.  _God, let this be good news._

Their little group walked down the corridor to find their comrades.  Thor was already pressing the two scientists for answers (which was just as well, because Sam had been about to as well, and neither of them were going to take bullshit).  “I pray you have found something,” the demigod said.

Tony glanced at Bruce, and Bruce nodded.  “Yeah, we found something.  It’s a longshot–”

“–but it’s the best we’ve got,” Tony finished firmly.  They reached the spare lab, unceremoniously charging inside.  Barton was at a desk, looking exhausted but not the least bit sleepy.  Maria was there as well, her ever-present collection of StarkPads spread across one of the lab benches.  She was rubbing her forehead wearily, but she looked up when she heard them come in.  “Gather, ye, for we come with news.”

“Please tell me it’s something good,” Clint said, standing as though suddenly jolted by a live wire.

Tony obviously _had_ been jolted by something because he was positively brimming with nervous energy.  “Good, maybe.  Fucking ridiculous bullshit, definitely.”  Nobody was in the mood for antics, and it was clear Thor was about to tell Tony so, but the inventor was rapidly bringing some data up on one of the monitors.  “So you’re not going to believe this but we need to find Barnes.”

The room went still.  Sam stiffened.  _Barnes._ The Winter Soldier.  He and Steve had spent a month searching for him before the incident with Omega Red.  A month scouring Europe, chasing down cold leads and ghost stories and long dead demons.  _Not again.  Tell me it’s not coming down to this again._   “No, I don’t believe it.”

Tony swept his fingers over the display, bringing up Barnes’ images, both from his time in the army in the 40s and as HYDRA’s deadliest assassin.  He shook his head.  “Yeah.  I guess God likes irony.  Or we’re stuck in some sort of time loop.”

“I fail to understand,” Thor admitted, his brow furrowed.  He hadn’t been present for the fall of SHIELD or their encounters with the Winter Soldier in the weeks after, so it was no wonder he was confused.  “What do we need of him?”

Bruce came closer.  “Sparing you the details, we think that we can generate a cure from Barnes’ blood.  We need a sample of the serum that hasn’t been contaminated by the virus.”

“Which leaves Barnes,” Tony explained.  “And that means we need to find him in a hurry.”

“Wait, wait.  So you’re saying we need Bucky to save Steve’s life?” Sam asked.

Tony sighed, not entirely pleased with the details but terribly relieved to have a plan at all.  “Seems that way.  We need to find him and bring him here.”

Sam couldn’t quite get his brain around this.  This seemed to come out of left field, though when he paused a moment, it made sense.  Everything back during his and Steve’s first quest to find Barnes and bring him back had been a rather twisted mess, but he’d learned some things nonetheless.  He’d learned that in turning Barnes into their super soldier, HYDRA had given him some version of Erskine’s original serum, a weaker, less pure version, but a close derivative nonetheless.  He’d learned that this serum functioned similar to Steve’s, providing increased strength, speed, and durability.  He’d learned that Barnes could manipulate the carbonadium just as Steve could, that the chemicals in his blood had been nearly as poisonous to Omega Red’s as Steve’s had been.  And he’d learned that the Winter Soldier was a monster, but James Buchanan Barnes had been a hero and Steve’s brother at heart.  No matter what HYDRA had done to him, the machine they’d turned him into, Barnes _knew_ Steve on some level.  Twice during that crazy month they’d spent hunting Barnes down he’d found them instead, and both times had been when Steve’s life had been in danger.  It wasn’t that much of a stretch to think that if they could locate him and get through to him, he’d come back with them.

But how in the world would they find him?

And even if they found him, how the hell would they get through to him?  Barnes didn’t know any of them save for Steve, and the last time they’d seen him, he’d still been seriously screwed up by HYDRA’s brainwashing, brainwashing that had been strong enough to force him to torture his best friend before he’d somewhat come to his senses.  Had he regained his identity?  Or even _any_ of his memories?  Was he Barnes or the Winter Soldier or someone else?  Steve had let him go, let him have a chance to reclaim himself on his own terms.  That had been four months ago.  An assassin as skilled as Barnes could be anywhere.  And a man so damaged, dark, and twisted could be _anyone_.

“I’m running a face trace as we speak,” Tony said, “and JARVIS has gotten us into security feeds around the globe as much as possible.”

Hill offered, “I think I can still work some connections with the FBI to get local law enforcement inv–”

“No,” Sam said quickly, snapping back to the conversation.  “I guarantee you that will spook him.  He’ll run.”

“I agree with Sam,” Clint added.  He seemed more grounded with this.  More together.  Maybe it was just the idea of having a plan.  Maybe not.  And it didn’t matter.  They needed someone to take charge.  And with Natasha out the loop, Clint was perhaps the closest they had to someone with similar training and a similar skillset to the Winter Soldier.  “HYDRA’s gone.  Steve let him go.  Whatever the hell he’s doing now, any mass organized attempt to find him and bring him back is going to set him off.”  _Like a cornered dog.  Attack and then run._

“We can’t afford to play cat and mouse with this guy,” Tony declared.  “Send the whole team.  He belongs in a fucking cell anyway.”

“We can’t afford to do that, either,” Bruce argued.  “I need to get a head start on the antiserum and pursue other avenues in case this doesn’t pan out.  I need your help with that.”  He shared an unhappy look with Stark.  “And I still can’t risk treating Steve.  I need someone else here, someone strong enough to contend with him.”  That meant Thor.

The demigod was troubled.  “What do you suggest then?” he asked.

Clint shook his head, staring at Barnes’ picture on the display.  The juxtaposition of the bright, smiling young man with neatly brushed brown hair and a neatly pressed US Army uniform against the cold, vicious scowl of the Winter Soldier with his unwashed tresses and unshaven face…  It was disturbing.  Even if Sam was certain that Barnes still remembered the connection he had with Steve, there was no guarantee that he’d risk arrest to honor it.  Those instances before had been in the middle of battle, with chaos available to shield Barnes’ escape.  Bucky would need to _trust_ them.  As impossible as this seemed, that made it even worse.  And Clint had come to the same conclusion.  “An assault’s not wise.  He’s a shadow.  He’s damn proficient at hiding his tracks.  We scare him, he’ll run.  We piss him off, he’ll fight.  This needs to be on his terms.  We need to convince him he needs to come back, not capture him.”

“Do we really have the time and freedom to make such a distinction?” Thor questioned worriedly.

Clint was tense.  “I don’t know, but I think we need to try.  It’s not the Winter Soldier we need.  It’s the man beneath it.  The Winter Soldier would just as soon kill anyone who threatens him.  But Barnes might listen if we could get close enough to talk.”

Maria nodded in agreement.  “If he cooperates, it would be a lot easier on everyone.”

“Right.”

“It doesn’t matter how we do it,” Bruce said.  “We just need to find him and find him fast, because this is our best shot at saving Steve’s life and every second we spend here is one less we can use to do that.”

“I’ll go.”  The words were out of Sam’s mouth before he even thought to speak.  The group turned to him, and he met their gazes one at a time, his strong and sure.  This made sense.  It made _good_ sense, and his heart was beating steadily against his sternum.  “I’m the only one who’s really had any contact with him since SHIELD fell.  He might not think I’m a threat.  He had a chance to kill me before.  He didn’t.  And at the very least he knows I’m Steve’s friend.  If there’s any part of him that cares about Steve, I think he’ll care about that.”

Clint stared at Barnes’ deadened, cold eyes.  “I’ll go, too.”

“What about Swordsman?  And Strucker?” Maria asked.

“They’ll have to wait,” Clint returned.  “This has gotta come first.”

“Shit,” Tony whispered, staring at the display.  The face trace was running as fast as the computer core in the Tower could manage (which was ridiculously fast, of course), but there was nothing so far.  Aside from the incident in DC, the time Sam and Steve had encountered the Winter Soldier in Prague, and the fight at Times Square, there were no obvious sightings of him.  No police reports.  No suspicious activity, at least not in the US.  That didn’t necessarily mean anything; the guy was a ghost, after all.  But the trail wasn’t simply cold.  There _was no_ trail.  “We’ve got nothing to go on.”

Clint turned away from the group, already heading to the door.  “I’ve got some contacts here in the city I can work.  It’s a place to start.”

“Some contacts?” Tony called after him.

“Better than nothing,” the archer called back.  He didn’t elaborate further, and no one asked.  “Keep searching.  I want to know whatever you know the second you know it, Stark.  Wilson, get your gear and meet me in the garage in fifteen.”

Sam was left reeling a moment that this was happening so quickly, that, after hours of sitting around and watching and doing nothing, they had a plan and were moving.  He tossed his crutches and tried to put his weight on his injured leg.  It hurt pretty badly, but he knew he could handle it.  He limped toward the door.  Tony jumped after him.  “I’ve got another suit for you.  It’ll take JARVIS only a few seconds to prep it.”

“Already on it, sir.”

“Thanks.”

“Listen.”  Tony grabbed his arm and stopped him momentarily.  His eyes were wild, filled with terror and anger, unrestrained in a way Sam had never seen.  “We need Barnes alive.”

The thought bothered him, like something sharp piercing its way through his skin.  “I know that.”

Tony didn’t seem to hear him.  “But short of killing the bastard, you do whatever you need to do to drop him.  I know you guys want to try the touchy-feely approach, but we can’t spare the time.  Just get him here.”  His voice grew rougher and rougher with something a bit dark and twisted.  Somehow Sam got the impression this wasn’t just about Steve.  “Okay?”

It wasn’t okay.  None of this was okay.  “Okay.”

Tony nodded and let him go.  Then Sam pushed all the speed he could from himself.  His muscles were stiff and he was exhausted, but the chance of saving Steve was reinvigorating him.  There was a chance.  Maybe it was small and crazy, but it was there.  _There was a chance._

A chance was all he needed.

* * *

“Nat.”

_Don’t._

“Natasha, wake up.”

_I can’t._

But she did.  And when she opened her eyes, she saw Clint was looking down on her.  He was calm.  Steady.  She saw the same strength and purpose she’d seen in him so many times before.  Strength and purpose every time she’d needed it, wanted it.  That had been fleeting of late, and suddenly she was realizing how much she’d missed it.  “Clint?”

He smiled faintly, and now she saw the pain was still present.  Distant, but not entirely gone.  “Sam and I are leaving.”

That brought her abruptly out of the haze of sleep.  Shock coursed over her, and she was struggling to lean up.  “Wh-what?  Right now?”  Clint took her arm and gently helped her.  The minute she was upright, a contraction wracked over her, and she couldn’t keep the groan behind her clenched teeth.  She curled over the huge, hard ball of her abdomen, wrapping her arms about the twins.  _No, no, no.  Not now.  Not now._

Clint crouched in front of her.  His hands slid down her arms to rest on her knees.  For a moment, she couldn’t do anything but breathe through the contraction.  Breathe and pray this wasn’t happening.  That it just passed.  She breathed and waited.  _Waited._ Finally, it was gone, and she came back to herself to find him watching her with worried eyes.  “How bad?”

She fought back tears.  “It’s not,” she assured quickly as the pain and pressure receded.  “It’s not.”  She didn’t know who she was promising more, herself or him.  It didn’t matter.  She blinked her vision clear and saw that he was dressed in his combat uniform, quiver fully stocked on his back and bow strapped to it.  He had a sidearm on his hip and a knife strapped to his thigh.  “Where are you…”

“Sam and I are leaving,” he said again.  Natasha turned and saw Sam behind her, speaking in hushed tones with Thor.  He, too, was dressed in mission gear, the crimson, gray, and black of his uniform dull in the dimmed lights of the quarantine room.  His flight suit was already strapped on, and he was limping but doing his best not to show it.  He caught her eyes, his filled with equal parts worry and regret.  He had Steve’s shield in his hands.  “We need to find Barnes.”

That didn’t make sense.  “What?”

Clint nodded.  “Bruce thinks the serum in Barnes’ blood can save Steve.  But we gotta move fast.  Did Steve ever say anything about where he thought Barnes might have gone?”  She couldn’t process that.  They needed to find Barnes?  Her empty stomach twisted nauseously.  These last few months, the nightmare through which the Winter Soldier had put them had thankfully faded, but it would never disappear entirely.  It had scarred Steve, scarred her.  Nearly torn them apart.  Logically she knew what Barnes had done wasn’t his fault; he’d been lost, captured, tortured, and twisted by HYDRA into what he was now.  But she’d only ever known him as what he’d become, as a cold-blooded killer, as competition, as a monster incapable of remorse.  As what she had been before Clint had saved her from the Red Room.  And she hated Barnes, hated him for one inexplicable night of passion years before she’d ever met and fallen in love with his best friend.  She hated him for shooting her and nearly killing her.  She hated him for what he’d done to Steve, for torturing him like a puppet, for hurting him so badly.  For the burden of guilt and grief Steve always carried with him for letting Barnes fall in 1945 and for her being so seriously wounded during the battle over the Potomac.  She hated him for being part of Steve’s nightmares as much as his good memories.  _She_ _hated him._

And now, apparently, she needed him.

She wanted to cry.  “Nat, focus.  This is really important.”  Clint’s tone was a little harsher with urgency.  “Did he ever say anything?  Anything at all.  Anything that might help us find him.”

“No.”  That was the thing about Steve.  He knew how Natasha felt about Barnes, so even if he wanted her comfort or assurance that Barnes would somehow find his way through the darkness and come back to his side, he never asked her for it.  “No, he never said anything.”

Clint wasn’t pleased, but he only nodded.  “Alright.”  He stood, looking over to Wilson.  “Ready?”

The other man came closer.  “Yeah.  Nat, is it okay if I take this?”  Sam lifted Steve’s shield.  She didn’t understand (and frankly didn’t want him to), glancing between the shield’s iconic, shining star and Sam’s compassionate eyes.  “Back when we were chasing him, Barnes remembered this more than he did anything else, I think.  Maybe he will again.  Maybe it’ll convince him to come back.”  She hesitated, even though she trusted Sam with her life and Steve’s life.  For some reason, letting the shield go, letting someone else take it, carry it…  _No._   She glanced back to the quarantine room where Steve was shifting weakly among the blankets, not quite conscious.  Sam came closer.  “Don’t worry.  I’ll take care of it.”  Without warning, he pulled her to him in a gentle embrace.  They’d hardly ever hugged before, and her first reaction was still to resist the contact.  But she didn’t, sinking down into the strength of his arms and chest.  “Take care of him.”

Words wouldn’t come, so she nodded against his shoulder.  He pulled away, his own eyes wet and hesitant.  Then he went to the side of the quarantine cell, clearly contemplating going in there to say goodbye to Steve.  He decided against it, pressing his hands to the window and looking down on his suffering friend with fury in his gaze.  His jaw was set in determination.  _This isn’t how it ends._   She could read that in every tense line of his body.  _This isn’t how it happens.  I’m going to save you._ He slung Steve’s shield over his shoulder and walked out.

Clint’s hands were grasping hers, drawing back her attention to him.  That strength and purpose glowed bright in his eyes again.  “We’re going to find him,” he promised, “and we’re going to bring him back here.  And Bruce will figure out how to make a cure from his blood and everything is going to be okay.”  It was strange hearing him making such blatant promises that he didn’t know if he could keep.  Clint didn’t do this, lie and offer shallow assurances that he couldn’t know were true.  He was a pragmatist, and while he’d given her solace and comfort many times in the past, he’d never done it like this.  _Like Steve always did._   And she’d never needed it from him like this, either.  He gave something of a crooked smile, his hands tentatively ghosting over her stomach before carefully touching it.  “We’re going to fix this.  I swear.  Just keep those kids inside until we get back, okay?”

 _Not like I can control that,_ she thought bitterly.  Fearfully.  But she only nodded, giving him a small smile in return.  He pressed his lips firmly to her forehead, squeezing her close to him and letting the kiss linger.  When he pulled away, she cupped his unshaven face.  “Be careful.”

He gave a curt nod.  Then he left, too.

Thor was there behind her again.  She only knew that because she’d wearily leaned back, her body aching and her head throbbing and her heart breaking.  She stared at the door, blinking back her tears.  Thor’s huge hands curled over her shoulders, true and gentle.  “It will be well.  We will find him.”  He was making his promises, too.  His eyes were deep and full of faith.  “I will make certain of it.”

She reached up and set her hand lightly over his, trying to make herself nod.  Trying and failing.

They stood in silence for a few minutes, reeling with this sudden turn of events, this tentative rush of hope.  In the cell, Steve thrashed a bit.  He turned over so his back was to the window.  Natasha could see he was shaking.  A vicious cough wracked his body.  And another.  And another yet.  It wasn’t the desperate choking that it had been earlier, but after a bit, it was clear he was having some trouble breathing.  “Rest.  I’ll see to him.”

Again, she tried to make herself nod.  Thor’s strong hands were gone as he went around to the clean room.  She couldn’t make herself watch Steve groan and rasp for air.  She folded her arms across her belly and stared at her feet, blinking back the burning in her eyes.  She heard Thor enter the quarantine cell over the intercom.  “Easy, my friend,” came his deep baritone.  “Easy.  Here is some water.”

Steve murmured something she couldn’t quite hear.  His voice was tortured, a faint shadow of its normal strength.  Thor responded with something in kind, low and comforting.  She closed her eyes.  Another contraction worked over her.  Thankfully, this one wasn’t nearly as painful as the last.  But her anxieties rushed back regardless.  _Don’t._   _I can’t.  I can’t do this._

“Peggy…”

That made her eyes fly open.  Thor was in the process of trying to move Steve back onto the freshly made bed.  Steve was limp and lethargic against him, blood slick on the corner of his mouth.  “Where… where is she…”

“I know not,” Thor responded.  He hooked Steve’s left arm around his neck and gently pulled him upright.  That ended in a fit of coughing that took them both back down to the floor, Steve collapsing onto his knees as he struggled through the paroxysm.  More blood, dark red and viscous, dripped down onto the floor.  Thor held him, wiping at his face with a fresh washcloth as the attack went on and on before finally subsiding.

Steve moaned, folding in half.  His eyes were unnaturally bright with fever.  He was looking at Thor, but again, he wasn’t seeing him.  Natasha didn’t know who he was seeing.  “Where’s Peggy?” he whispered plaintively, balling his fist into Thor’s shirt.  “Where…”

Helplessly Thor glanced at Natasha.  He probably didn’t know who Peggy was.  Natasha couldn’t manage a breath with the pain in her chest.  She pressed her palm over her engagement ring until the diamond was digging painfully into her flesh.  She couldn’t do anything but shake her head.  Thor closed his eyes, smart enough to realize Steve was confusing the past with the present.  He exhaled slowly.  “Let us get you into bed.  Then I’ll try to bring the fever down and you will be able to see things clearly again.”

“Don’t…  I can’t…”  Thor ignored his protests and tugged him upright again.  A few halting, unsteady steps had him back into the bed.  Thor grabbed the cup of water he’d brought and helped Steve sit up slightly.  He tipped it to his cracked, bloodied lips, and Steve drank meagerly.  “Peggy…” he gasped as he fell back against the pillow.  “Please…  Just tell me where she is…”

“I swear I will find her for you.  But now you need to rest,” Thor implored.  He pulled open the loose tunic Steve was wearing.  Then he grabbed more washcloths, wet them, and laid them on Steve’s forehead, neck, and chest.  “Everything is alright.  I am here.  Natasha is here.”

“I need… need to see her…  Peggy…”

Natasha couldn’t stand it anymore.  She stepped closer to the glass, as close as she could again.  “Steve, it’s Natasha.  Look at me.”

He turned his head and looked at her.  His eyes didn’t focus.  And then they slipped shut, his lips relaxing into a relieved smile.  “Peg…”

 _No._   If she could just get in there, hold him, _ground_ him…  She wanted to scream.  “It’s Nat, Steve.  Not Peggy.  It’s 2015.”

He didn’t answer.  She didn’t know if he’d fallen asleep or lost consciousness.  Either way, he slumped more into the bed, relaxing and letting the fever carry him away.  Thor turned to her, his blue eyes steeped in worry and sorrow.  “He is confused,” he said, as though that wasn’t obvious.  “The fever has twisted his mind.  He knows you.  I am certain of it.”

She swallowed down the agony.  “I know.”

Thor didn’t seem convinced.  “Do not be disheartened.  It is your face he sees.  Your voice he hears.  Your love sustains him.  And it will be your faith that carries him, Natasha.  Yours and yours alone.”

She couldn’t speak.  Her voice wouldn’t come, and there were no words she could say at any rate.  She watched as he turned back to his task – as he did what she _should_ be doing – trying not to hate the world for doing this to them.  Many long minutes passed while Thor gently cooled Steve as best he could.  The ragged rise and fall of Steve’s chest was all either of them saw.  The rush of his strained pants through his cracked, parted lips was all either of them heard.  The fear that they were losing him – _that they had lost him already_ – was all that they felt.

“Natasha.”  Bruce’s soft call pulled Natasha from her daze.  He stood behind her.  He looked worn.  Upset.  Trying to hold it together.  “Do you mind if we speak alone for a minute?”

Her anxiety ramped up anew, dizzying and sour inside her.  She nodded before she thought to refuse.  He took her elbow, tenderly leading her out of the quarantine room, this hellish prison she hadn’t even thought to leave in hours.  Her feet dragged subconsciously, her eyes glued to Steve’s feverish face as Thor wiped his brow.  _I can’t leave him._

But she had before she realized she was.  She was outside in the hallway, letting Bruce take her to another room.  A little break room, not unlike the one to which Thor had taken her back after Clint had died months ago.  And, not unlike then, there was a plate on the table with a sandwich and some fruit.  A glass of water and one of milk were beside it.  “No, Bruce,” she said, trying to pull away.  “I can’t.  I have to go back to Steve.”

“He’s fine right now.  And you need to eat.”  This was said more sternly.  There was no room for objection.  Bruce was adamant.  “The last thing we need is you collapsing because your blood sugar’s in the tank or running yourself so ragged that you go into labor.”  Natasha flinched.  He saw it, of course, but he didn’t comment.  He just gestured to the plate and the chair in front of it.

Natasha exhaled slowly, trying to gather herself.  She went to the chair, letting him pull it out for her and help her lower her stiff and uncooperative body in it.  He nudged the tray closer and then sat across from her.  She picked up the sandwich – simple turkey cold cuts with cheese and lettuce – and took a bite under his supervision.  It tasted like nothing.

He let her eat for a little while in silence, long enough that she started to wonder if (and hope that) getting some sustenance in her was what this little meeting was all about.  Sadly, that wasn’t case.  A few more moments passed, and he started fidgeting.  Wringing his hands together again.  Glancing at her instead of holding her gaze.  He wasn’t brave enough to say what he needed to say.  She wasn’t brave enough to ask.

Finally, he mustered up his composure.  “I, um…  I wasn’t going to tell you this.  I didn’t want to hurt you.  But Tony…”  He closed his eyes like he was hurting.  “He’s right.  It’s not fair of me to keep anything from you.  It’s not fair of me to make your decisions for you.  If I was in your place, I’d want to know everything.  I’d want to know all of the options, even the bad ones.  And I’m not advocating this at all, understand.  Not at all.”

Terror left her heart struggling to beat.  “What do you mean?”

“They told you about Barnes, that we need a large sample of the serum in order to save Steve’s life.”

“Yes.”

Bruce shut his eyes in pain again.  “There are other things I can try, and I will.  Believe me, Natasha, I will.  But using the serum itself is really our best shot.  Our only shot.  Still, if they can’t find him, can’t bring him back…  There’s another source we can use.”

“What?”

He looked at her again, at her face, and then his eyes dropped down to the swell of her stomach.  Natasha’s blood went cold.  She let her sandwich fall to the plate, her fingers shaking.  Her hands protectively wrapped around her belly.  A kick inside left her throbbing.  _Throbbing._   This wasn’t happening.  _It’s not happening._

But it was.  And breathing through the agony was all she could do as Bruce explained to her that he could perhaps save the life of her husband by endangering the lives of her unborn children.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Mixing up the MCU and comic canon as usual. Enjoy, everyone!

Clint had been to plenty of dark and disreputable parts of the world, but the streets of Hell’s Kitchen were among the more intimidating.  He wasn’t quite sure why.  The violence here was not among the worst he’d seen.  The crime was abundant, but not as abundant as it was in other shadowy corners in other cities.  It wasn’t as dirty, as foul, as unwelcoming as some of the most unpleasant and seedy locales across the globe that he’d frequented both as a hired killer and as a SHIELD agent.  But that was probably the reason it was so unnerving.  This was part of New York City, and New York could certainly be a dangerous place, but the fact that, on the surface at least, Hell’s Kitchen didn’t _look_ as vile and vicious as it could be was off-putting.  Still, Clint knew well that looks could be deceiving.  He kept his eyes ahead as they walked down the dusky street.  The sun had just set, so a touch of light yet permeated the cold, damp night.  Shadows swept across the way.  The evening was tense and unsettled, all too closely mirroring how he felt.  And how Sam was acting.  “Stop looking around,” he warned lowly.

Sam bristled, shrugging deeper into his coat.  “Tell me what we’re looking for then,” he returned in just as quiet a tone.

“Not what.  Who.”

“Not helpful.”  Wilson was angry, his muscles taut and his eyes narrowed.  Clint couldn’t blame him.  His best friend was dying, and they were on some insane quest to try and save him, and Clint had kept him completely in the dark thus far.  That wasn’t an act of a good friend or teammate (or partner, in this case), and Clint knew better.  He really wasn’t in a chatting mood, not with Natasha practically in labor back at the Tower and her husband suffering from some devastating, previously unknown alien disease.  Not with his own past looming.

Sometimes he forgot that Sam wasn’t SHIELD.  He was military, so he wasn’t privy to the things Clint knew.  He was a soldier, not a spy.  Not an assassin.  So while he’d seen his own fair share of darkness in this world, this sort of thing was probably a hell of an unknown, and that was only adding to his unease.  Clint probably owed him some honesty.  “Down the street there’s a place called Finnigan’s Pub,” he explained softly, quickly checking their surroundings to see if anyone was following them or close enough to hear.  It was damn cold, the wet chill cutting through clothes and going straight into bones, so the street was fairly deserted.  “Old Irish.  The proprietor’s a decent guy, but he’s been around long enough in this neighborhood to keep his head in the sand.  And he’s made friends with the right people.”  _Or the wrong people, depending on your point of view._ “I set up a meeting there with Felicia Hardy.”

“Who?”

Clint forgave Sam his ignorance.  “They call her the Black Cat.  She’s a kid, but she’s one of New York’s best cat burglars, maybe one of the best in the world.  Smart, but way too ambitious for her own good.  I turned a blind eye to something she was up to a couple of years ago, so she owes me a favor.”

Sam looked dubious.  “And she’s gonna know where Barnes is.”

Clint shook his head.  “No, but she will put us in touch with someone who might.”

Now the irritation was back, but it was tempered with interest and a touch of dread.  Sam was damn good at reading people, and he’d obviously picked up on Clint’s disquiet even though Clint thought he’d masked it well.  “Who?”

Clint gave a soft sigh.  He slowed in his pace because he needed to say this before they got too close.  The bar wasn’t far now, just a couple of blocks more.  “Listen.  We’re gonna be dealing with some very dangerous people here.”

Sam gave him a hard glance, not appreciating the pep talk.  “Like we haven’t been?”

Unable to help another small, short breath, Clint tried to find a way to explain this without demeaning the other man.  People like Sam, like Steve, who only ever lived in the light and served the good of society…  They didn’t understand that there were different kinds of evil and varying levels of it.  “HYDRA’s bad, sure.  But they’re predictably bad, and they have one goal in the end.  Things here aren’t so black and white, and greed and desperation factor into everything.”

Sam clenched his jaw.  “Just tell me what I need to do.”

“Nothing.”  Clint turned his eyes ahead.  He inconspicuously took stock of his surroundings again.  Perhaps he was being overly cautious, but knowing that Duquesne had found him, was gunning for him…  That was bad enough, and Swordsman wasn’t the only enemy he had.  Plus being around here, just talking about what and whom they were talking about, was a bad idea.  People got clipped for knowing the wrong stuff.  “Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open.  This guy she’s putting us in contact with…  Just let me do the talking.  He’s dangerous.”  _Really dangerous._

Sam looked around again as well, more obvious in it but Clint didn’t call him out on that.  “Okay, I get that I’m out of my league here, but you gotta give me more.  Who is he?”

“Wilson Fisk.”

“Should I know who that is?”

“Probably not,” answered Clint.  “He’s… shy.  Doesn’t like his name tossed around.”

“Shy?” Sam murmured incredulously.

Clint nodded.  “He may not seem it when you see him, but he’s the biggest crime lord in Manhattan, probably even on the East Coast.  He’s got Hell’s Kitchen in a choke hold with aspirations for bigger things, like remaking the city the way he wants.”  Sam shook his head in disgust.  Clint had to admit that that particular aspiration seemed to be a common theme among their enemies.  SHIELD.  HYDRA.  The Red Room.  Creating a new world order with themselves at the top.  Eradicating opposition and with it humanity’s weaknesses.  “He’s got ties to the Yakuza, to the Italian and Russian mafias, to Chinese street gangs and organized crime.  And he’s got his fingers in everything, from NYPD up to state senators.  Right now he’s even got the public on his side.  He’s convinced everyone that he’s the good guy, that he wants what’s best for New York.  He was on SHIELD’s watch list for years.”

“Years?”  Sam’s disgust wasn’t well hidden.  “If he’s so powerful and so evil, why didn’t SHIELD take him down instead of just _watching_ him?”

Clint clenched his fists inside the pockets of his coat.  “Jurisdiction, mostly.  We knew he has ties to international crime rings, but he’s careful about it so evidence was hard to come by.  No money trails, paper or otherwise.  No way to build a case against him for what he’s been doing overseas, so that makes him New York’s problem.  SHIELD was after bigger fish, to be honest.”

“Or HYDRA was,” Sam muttered.

Clint couldn’t argue with that, even if it stung.  “Fisk is introverted and vicious, but he’s practical.  He stayed out of SHIELD’s way for the most part, and sometimes common enemies made for strange bedfellows.”  Sam grunted in disapproval.  “He’s got no love for the Russians.  He’s having a falling out with them as we speak, but this isn’t the first time.  The grudge dates back years.”

“And you think he’ll know where Barnes is,” Sam said.

“The last time anyone saw Barnes he was in Times Square.  In the last four months, one of two things happened: he’s left the city or he’s still here, hiding somewhere.  In either case, he’s been off the radar.  There’s been no trace of him.  Fisk’s got cops, transit officers, councilmen, all sorts of people in his pocket.  If any one of them is helping Barnes or knows something…”  Clint trailed off, irritated that it had come to this.  “It’s a longshot, but we need to take it.  I don’t have any other ideas.  Do you?”

Of all of them, Sam was the only one who’d really had any substantive contact with the Winter Soldier.  Even when he’d been acting as a double agent inside Pierce’s ranks, Clint hadn’t done more than catch a glimpse or two of Barnes.  If Sam had had another plan of attack, he’d be all ears.  It was more than obvious from his dark, frustrated expression that he didn’t, though.  “Why would this guy want to help us?” he finally questioned instead.

Clint had been hoping Sam wouldn’t ask this.  “He and I have something of an understanding.”

Sam glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.  “You do, huh,” he returned lowly.  “And what sort of understanding is that?”  Clint didn’t answer, didn’t _want_ to answer.  The fact that Duquesne was after him was trouble enough.  He didn’t want to go digging any further in his past, into memories he’d worked hard to forget over the years.  He didn’t want to pry open doors that had been shut ages ago.  Sam’s eyes flashed in ire, and he grabbed his arm and made him stop.  Clint resisted, darting his eyes around the nearly empty street.  Nothing looked more suspicious than arguing in the middle of the sidewalk like this.  “Barton, I know you’re lying.”  _You’re lying.  You goddamn coward.  Lying._ Clint stiffened like he’d been punched.  He made himself be calm, made his face lax and unreadable, because doing anything else would betray just how true that was.  Sam couldn’t know he was hitting a nerve.  He couldn’t.  The paranoia was too hard to hide and harder still to shake. 

However, Sam noticed that, of course, even if he didn’t understand, and the harsh look of accusation in his eyes abated.  He lowered his voice.  “Or at least you’re not telling the whole truth.  And I don’t care.  I don’t care what you’ve done, what you’re hiding, whatever it is you don’t want the rest of us to know.  You can have your secrets.”  His gaze narrowed again.  “But I’m not betting Steve’s life without knowing what we’re dealing with.  Now how do you know this Fisk guy is going to help us?”

He was right.  Clint had to trust, had to be honest.  This wasn’t something he’d had to do in years, not since coming to SHIELD.  Even then, so much of it had been on his terms.  This wasn’t.  Still, with Steve’s life on the line, there was no choice.  He wasn’t willing to let anyone die because he couldn’t be a good man.  “Before I joined SHIELD, Fisk hired me to do a job for him.”

There was revulsion in Sam’s brown eyes.  “A hit,” he corrected forcefully, not pleased.

That stoked Clint’s ire.  “Yeah, a hit _._   Because I was a fucking hitman, alright?”  Wilson’s hard glower eased in shame, and he let Clint’s arm go.  Clint pulled away, his wrist aching just a bit.  “And I got it done.  But shit went south this time, and I ended up getting arrested.  This was before he had all the power he does now.  Thankfully the cops had nothing concrete to tie me to him or me to the dead man, but I spent a night in interrogation.  I could have rolled on him, but I didn’t.  And he never forgot that.”

Sam looked sheepish, embarrassed at having dragged such a reaction from him.  Clint hadn’t even realized until now that he was practically seething, breathing sharply through clenched teeth, his hands balled into fists and the entirety of his body practically tremoring with the effort to keep still.  His dark past.  God, he wished it had stayed buried.  Losing Natasha, losing SHIELD, losing his very _life_ …  Somehow that didn’t compare with losing control of his secrets.  He started walking again.  “So that’s why I think he might help us.  Fisk is a dangerous bastard, but he’s got some sort of twisted honor to him.”

That was what they were hinging Steve’s survival on.  The honor of a crime lord.  Sam realized that, shaking his head and lurching to keep up.  He was still limping, though he was doing an admirable job of hiding it.  “Fuck,” he whispered.

“So keep your cool.  Don’t talk.  Let me handle him,” Clint said again, wresting his emotions back under his command.  There was no place for them here.  “Hopefully he can give us some information.  Then we get the hell out of here and find Barnes and save Cap.”

Simple enough.

They reached the pub.  There were more people around here, despite the icy air and the cold mist.  This was the underbelly of Hell’s Kitchen, far from the nice neighborhoods and affluent aspirations.  This was where the thugs and mobsters and corrupted cops gathered, the sort with malice clinging to their smiles and eyes that warned of violence.  It had been fifteen years since he’d left behind the life he’d had before SHIELD, but some things never changed.  As he approached and slipped inside their destination, a small, ugly part of him felt like he was coming home.

The room was dark, maybe one step above seedy for the sake of appearances, and the air had that sort of electrified, tense quality to it, like a simple spark could ignite a massive explosion.  This was the type of place criminals could come to gloat about their conquests or discuss their next heist without worry of anyone overhearing or ratting them out.  There was cigarette and cigar smoke in a thick plume over old, nicked tables that were cluttered with beer bottles, frothy mugs, and shot glasses.  Thankfully, no one paid them much attention as they ventured inside.  People might have recognized him, but they didn’t act.  Anybody who had the balls to come in here had probably already earned his stripes in the underworld.  If not, he’d be fodder soon enough.

Hardy was at the bar, leaning over it suggestively as she talked to an older man.  It had only been a few years since he’d seen her last, and she was much the same as he remembered.  Long-limbed, lithe, and gorgeous, dressed in black, skinny jeans and a black halter top that accentuated far too much and hid next to nothing.  Her hair was so blond it was nearly a silvery white in this light, platinum that shone sleekly in the shadows as it cascaded over her shoulders and down her back.  Her eyes were very blue, her lips deeply red.  She was trouble, pure and simple.  When she spotted him, the easy, flirtatious smile slid from her face.  “I was hoping you would come to your senses,” she said after he reached her side.

“I was hoping you’d do the same,” he said evenly.  And that was true enough.  He’d turned the other way when he’d run into her in the midst of chasing some terrorists trying to smuggle weapons into the US.  She hadn’t been part of his mission, and she’d clearly been in way over her head, looking to make a quick score down at the docks but ending up embroiled in an international battle between SHIELD and a weapons ring which they were trying to bring down.  In the end, she’d picked the right side, so Clint had ended their uneasy alliance with an offer to fight for the right people, an offer which she’d turned down.  So he’d followed that up with a warning that if he ever crossed paths with her again and found her on the wrong end of his gun, he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot.

Felicia smiled coyly.  There were things about her that reminded him of Natasha at this age certainly.  But she lacked precision, lacked finesse, lacked that cold danger.  Hardy was a burglar, not an assassin, and it showed.  She might be the best in the world at slipping in undetected, swiping jewels or artifacts or _whatever_ had caught her fancy, and getting out like she’d never been there at all, but she wasn’t cruel.  She hadn’t been trained, not formally, and she _liked_ exactly what she was.  She was like a little girl rebelling and playing with fire, coming into this dark underworld for reasons entirely different than Clint’s or Natasha’s.  The adventure of it.  The allure.  The freedom.  Not good reasons, in Clint’s opinion.  Not that there were good reasons to become a murderer or a thief, but Felicia’s were trite, and she _still_ seemed to have no idea what she was getting into.

But that was irrelevant and not why he was here.  “Is he here?” he asked.

That grin fell more.  “Yes,” she responded, “but are you sure you want to do this?  You’re not… who you were.”

 _Not even who you were six months ago._   And he wasn’t.  As a SHIELD agent, he’d still carried some clout in this world, a reputation dark and dangerous enough to protect him, a _legacy_ to the moniker “Hawkeye”.  Now he was an Avenger, and SHIELD was gone.  “No choice,” he replied.  She stared at him like she was trying to figure out why, and when his stony face yielded nothing, she turned to Sam, who was a complete stranger of course.  Clint refused to glance over his shoulder at his friend, trusting Wilson to keep it under wraps.  If the men here (or Fisk himself) got wind that they were trying to save Captain America, he was sure the tenuous calm of the situation would be gone in a blink.  These people were loyal to Fisk.  Clint had no idea what Fisk thought of the Avengers, but he’d yet to meet a bad guy who held Captain America in high esteem.

She was satisfied enough with that because she stopped trying to stare the answers out of them.  “Alright,” she said.  “Come on.”  She led them from the bar, sashaying through the pub with that sway of her hips that he remembered from before.  It was a tad childish, something young girls did when they were trying to get attention, and it did get her attention.  A few of the men looked at them as they passed, and they were looking at her rather than at Clint or Sam.  Clint supposed he should have been grateful for that, even if he didn’t care for the lascivious leers.  They headed to the back of the main room, where the air was a bit clearer and the lights were less dim.  There was a private dining room beyond, and the doors to it were closed.  She stopped in the shadows, looking like she wanted to say something.  After a pause, she gathered up the inclination to actually say it.  “Be careful about what you say,” she warned.  Her eyes were dark with actual concern.  “I had to pull a lot of strings to make this happen, and I don’t want all that hard work wasted if you piss him off and end up at the bottom of the East River.  And be quick.  Things are… _tense_ around here.”

He’d heard that, noticed it in fact.  Something about some sort of masked vigilante interfering with Fisk’s plans.  Something about corruption in pension funds and the reconstruction plans for the city.  People were ending up dead.  It was small game, really, something SHIELD would have logged and maybe monitored but not stopped.  Localized crime and localized problems.  Unrest was brewing in Hell’s Kitchen, and that meant Fisk was likely to be short on patience.  “I just have one thing I need to ask him,” he quietly assured.

“Then ask it,” Felicia said, “and hope he’s in a charitable mood.  Around here, the rich are getting richer, the poor are getting poorer, and everyone stuck in the middle is getting killed.”

“Not my concern right now.”

“Then get in and get out fast.”  She gestured to the room ahead of them.  Clint took a deep breath, chancing a quick look at Sam.  Sam nodded.  Then he pushed open the swinging doors and headed inside.

It wasn’t a fancy dining room by any means.  It was dull and outdated in its décor, drab in pretty much every sense of the word.  The sconces along the wallpapered sides were dim.  The table was nice but old.  The carpet was red with gold swirls and paisleys, made to look more refined than it actually was.  It was the sort of place one would expect in a pub like this, not where one would expect the biggest crime boss in New York to be waiting for a meeting.  Still, there Fisk was, dressed immaculately in an expensive, dark suit that only made him seem paler and more disturbing.  He was a large man and not terribly attractive, with a stocky, wide frame and a round head.  His girth was muscle, not fat, and too many people had made that mistake and failed to anticipate how strong, fast, and _brutal_ he was.  He was bald, and his skin was flawlessly smooth but not pretty because it was so pasty that it was almost gray.  His eyes were sharp, very much so, and though he was older, he was even colder and more intimidating than Clint remembered.  That glare, a bit emotionless, a bit _inhuman_ , was nearly the same as it had been, but now it was wizened.  Smarter.  More calculating.

Standing at his left was James Wesley.  Clint knew him by reputation only.  He was also perfectly dressed, a thinner man with a banal, impassive face.  He wore glasses, and his brown hair was neatly styled.  He was Fisk’s right-hand man, on the surface his personal assistant, but rumor had it he was far more than that.  Fisk’s sword and confidante.  He was just as dangerous.  “Agent Barton,” Wesley said, eyeing him critically.  He gave the thinnest of pleasant smiles.  “Although not an agent anymore.  Should we simply call you Hawkeye then?”

“I don’t care what you call me,” Clint said.  As unsettled as he was feeling, as depressed as he’d been since Omega Red, he had to play this game.  It used to be effortless, dealing with people like this.  Kings of their own little fiefdoms who needed dependable, outside contractors to get jobs done.  Arrogant bastards who thought they were at the top of the food chain, not realizing the food chain was much, _much_ bigger than this tiny corner of the world.  As a SHIELD agent and Avenger, Clint was starting to realize just how large that chain was, and he had no idea who was at the top of it.  Evil in its varying forms and levels.  Regardless, he needed to get this done.  “I just want to ask one question.”

Wesley folded his hands together at his waist.  “It’s only because of your… prior business relationship with Mr. Fisk that he’s agreed to see you.  He is a very busy man.”  There was an unspoken threat there.  As was the fact that if either he or Sam should do anything to upset Fisk, their lives would be forfeit.  They were both armed and only Fisk and Wesley were in the dining room with them, but Clint knew that every man outside was loyal to the crime boss.  They’d have no chance to escape if they tried anything.  They were getting away from this only because Fisk was choosing to let them escape.  That was painfully obvious.  Wesley smiled faintly again.  “Furthermore, I can’t guarantee a truthful answer or an answer at all, let alone what you want to hear. 

He’d figured that.  “Fair enough.”

Wesley tipped his head toward him slightly.  “Then ask your question.”

Inconspicuously, Clint drew a deep breath.  It was now or never.  He prayed he wasn’t making a mistake.  “We’re looking for the Winter Soldier.  I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

As good as they were at controlling discussions and negotiations, Wesley couldn’t quite contain his surprise.  “HYDRA’s wayward weapon,” he commented.  “What interest do you have in him?”

Clint wasn’t going to go there.  He felt Sam stiffen ever so slightly beside him and prayed he’d keep his mouth shut.  “What do you care?  It can only be to your benefit that he’s been cut loose.  Considering the issue you’ve been having with Mother Russia, it would only be even _more_ to your benefit that we take care of him.”  Wesley cocked an eyebrow after that.  “The Red Room is no more.  Lukin’s in federal custody, although we both know that might not be that much of a deterrent for him.”  Clint shrugged slightly.  “Seems to me you’d want his long arm off the streets.”

Fisk’s expression changed slightly.  Clint had a hard time reading it.  However, it was Wesley who answered yet again.  “The world’s a big place, and the Winter Soldier is a ghost among ghosts.  What makes you think Mr. Fisk would know where he is?”

“Because the last time he was spotted he was in the city.  That was four months ago,” Clint said.  “He may be a ghost, but people still claim to see ghosts all the time.”  He tilted his head slightly, settling his firm gaze on Fisk.  “You’ve got eyes and ears all over this city.  All I want to know is if anyone’s got eyes or ears on him.  That’s it.”

The room was silent a moment.  Then Fisk finally spoke.  This, too, was what Clint remembered.  His voice was empty, a dull, deep monotone.  So many villains, tyrants, and bad people loved theatrics and flourish and were arrogant beyond measure.  Fisk was deadened, flat, and restrained.  “I would still like to know why.  Surely one rogue assassin isn’t enough to warrant the interest of the Avengers.”

Clint kept his face stoic.  He couldn’t betray his reasons now.  Obviously it was not common knowledge, even in the underworld, about Barnes’ true identity and his friendship with Captain America.  If that was the case, he’d certainly prefer to keep it that way.  Or it _wasn’t_ the case and Fisk was playing him, testing him to see if he’d reveal some part of the truth behind his motives to get what he needed.  “He has something we need,” he admitted.  Natasha always claimed the most convincing lies were those that had a shred of truth to them.  “We have to find him.”

Fisk considered that for a moment, turning his murky gaze to the gleaming table top as he thought.  “Even if I had the capacity to get this information for you, it might take some time to gather it.”  _Time we don’t have._   “And it would come at a price.”

Clint had been afraid of this, that the favor Fisk owed him wouldn’t be sufficient to get what they needed.  Fisk was a businessman, and he was damn ruthless when it came to positioning himself to profit.  This wasn’t a financial gain.  Money was power here, but not as much as _power_ was power.  Of that, Clint didn’t have much to offer.  Money they had in droves, thanks to Tony, and Tony would be more than willing to pony it up.  He’d probably even put his precious tech on the table.  Hopefully, they’d have _something_ that Fisk wanted, something with which they could buy the information they needed.  Clint knew Steve wouldn’t want them aiding an unrepentant murderer and criminal, even if it would save his life.  Thankfully, he supposed, Steve wasn’t well enough to have an opinion.  “What do you want?”

Now Fisk did smile, a weak, ugly thing.  “What are you willing to pay?”

Irritation tickled through him.  “Not how this works.  You brought up a price.  Name it.”

For a crazy moment, he allowed himself to entertain the possibility that this _would_ just come down to money.  An easy, uncomplicated exchange.  Information for wealth.  But it wasn’t going to be that simple, of course, and Fisk’s smile turned cruel.  “I want the Avengers’ assurance that you will stay out of my business.”  _Damn it._   “You’re right.  The war you wage against HYDRA doesn’t concern me.  But I have plans, plans I’d very much like to see come to fruition.  I know my… interests probably seem like small game to you, but they’re not.  And I want your oath that you will turn a blind eye to them.”

 _Shit._  He didn’t need to look at Sam to know what the other man was thinking.  This wasn’t about Fisk selling information.  This was about him _buying_ the Avengers.  Buying the freedom to do whatever it was he wanted to do.  Fisk was maybe appearing to the public as a saint, but Clint knew better than anyone what he was deep down.  The man was unrepentant, violent, and determined.  And, yes, maybe for the moment this situation _was_ small game.  And perhaps this masked man could handle it.  But the Avengers had to be prepared to act if the need arose.  Turning a blind eye?  Not possible.

Fisk went on.  “You hold Captain America’s ear.  You can sway his decisions.  I know at one time you were a… close companion of his wife.  Surely you can convince him.  If not him, then her.”  Clint gritted his teeth.  Fisk knew he was striking a nerve and was watching carefully for a reaction.  “How is the captain, anyway?  People seem pretty upset with what happened.”

 _Son of a bitch._   Fisk was fucking _emotionless_ as he pushed buttons.  Pried.  _Taunted_ without the slightest hint of gloating or arrogance.  These were seemingly honest questions, but Clint couldn’t stop wondering if Fisk somehow _knew_ exactly what was wrong with Steve.  And it didn’t matter.  He couldn’t sell the Avengers’ integrity.  Not even for their captain’s life.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to get something out of this.  “If I were to agree to this,” he offered, hoping that Sam trusted him enough to play along, “what can you offer me to show me you have something worth my time?”

Fisk had no tells.  Clint recalled that from their prior dealings years ago.  If anything, he was even more stoic.  “As I said, it would take time for me to investigate this matter.”

This was a waste.  He had to offer up the Avenger’s complacency on a platter to even get his foot in the door.  And even if that was something he could and was willing to do, there was no guarantee of a return on his investment, let alone a return in time.  He should have known better. Dealing with criminals was always unpredictable, and they fed on desperation.  If Fisk had information, Clint knew then and there that it would cost more than he could pay.  “I can’t do that without knowing I’m getting something out of this.  And it needs to be fast.”

Fisk actually looked at Wesley, and that was all Clint needed to see to know this was over.  “Then we’re sadly at an impasse.  I don’t think we can help you,” Wesley said.  “I’m sorry.”

It took a lot, but Clint managed to keep his expression placid.  Fisk liked things to be calm and genteel, and expressing anything other than appropriately professional regret would make this worse.  “So am I.  Thanks anyway.”  He turned, sent a look to Sam that he hoped communicated that they needed to go without making any sort of scene, and headed back to the door.  Sam’s gaze lingered maybe a little longer than it should have, but he followed.  Followed him back to goddamn square one.

Before they could leave, though, Fisk spoke again.  “I wonder what it was that you expected.”  Clint stopped in his tracks, his heart beating faster and his blood going colder.  “I might not know off the top of my head about the Winter Soldier, but I do listen very carefully to the rumors circulating the streets.  And the rumors are that HYDRA has a target on you.  On Captain America and Iron Man, of course, but on _you_ specifically.  The Swordsman is after you.  Now that your identity is exposed, he can find you.  He didn’t exactly make that a secret in Geneva, but he’s hunting you, waiting for you to come out into the open to make his move.  In fact, rumor has it that he’s pulled together quite a strike force for the sole purpose of destroying you.”  Clint found he couldn’t quite breathe again.  He felt Sam stiffen beside him.  Fisk shook his head, pleased with himself, and took one small step closer.  “You came in here with heat on you.  You couldn’t expect me to want to help you, not with HYDRA openly waging war on you and the Avengers.  I should kill you here and now simply on principle.”

“HYDRA has no interest in you,” Clint returned icily.

“Correct.  And I would like to keep it that way,” Fisk said.  “I would need far more than a single business transaction to even consider risking HYDRA’s wrath.”

Clint was losing his patience for this.  “You can’t expect _me_ to give you any assurances that the Avengers will ignore you taking apart this city from the inside.  Maybe we’ve got our hands full with HYDRA right now, but you better believe that we’d make time for you if you got out of line.”

That was a threat, and everyone in the room knew it.  “Hands full with HYDRA,” Fisk said, and now there was a sadistic lilt to his otherwise empty tone.  “Somehow I have a feeling you’ve got your hands full with something else.  I don’t know what and I don’t know why, but I also have a feeling you’re after the Winter Soldier to save Captain America.  His life must be in serious danger if someone as strong as he is just collapsed in the middle of a fight for no obvious reason.  And there’s no other reason someone like you would chance coming back into this world than for something like love and loyalty.”  Clint didn’t need to say anything.  He couldn’t deny, couldn’t confirm.  The cat was out of the proverbial bag by their mere presence.  He’d screwed up.  Fisk’s lips curled into another humorless smile, but like his voice, this was harsher and vindictive.  Through that flattened affect, the ugliness came pouring out.  “You.  Black Widow.  Banner.  Even Stark.  Do you honestly think you can ever be more than what you were?  That you can escape your pasts?  Being an Avenger doesn’t erase your sins, and you’ve lived a life of them.  Neither does being Rogers’ friend or his wife or bringing his children into this world.”

Clint saw red.  His temper surged against his restraint, and the urge to pull the gun he had hidden under his jacket and put a bullet into this bastard’s head was nearly overwhelming.  It’d be signing his death sentence for certain, but he couldn’t make himself care.  He was starting to wonder if he had anything left for which it was worth fighting.  “I guess we’re both pretending we’re something we’re not,” he seethed.

Fisk’s eyes narrowed.  “I’m not pretending.”  His voice was cold, angered.  Insulted.  If there’d been any chance of this turning out in their favor before, it was dead now.  “When the Swordsman catches up to you, I guess the world will see who will win that fight.  The man you were or this man you think you can be.  And you’re a fool if you think you have any allies left.”

Clint stared at him, rattled down his to core but adamant that he wouldn’t show it.  Fisk’s one, quick moment of tempered interest, of cruel glee, was gone, replaced again by seeming apathy.  The archer glanced between Fisk and Wesley before settling his glare back on the crime boss.  Then he sighed shortly through his nose and went back through the doors.

Sam was smart enough to keep his anger to himself as they quickly walked back across the pub toward the bar and the exit.  Clint kept a watchful eye on their surroundings; with their business (unsuccessfully) concluded, there was no telling what could happen now.  Two dead Avengers would be a hell of a trophy for any of these bastards.  But nobody bothered them as they crossed the pub.  A moment later, they were back out into the cold evening.

And Sam didn’t restrain himself any longer.  “What the hell?” he hissed, grabbing Clint’s arm.  Clint pulled away and started down the road briskly.  Lingering here would be foolhardy at best, monumentally stupid at worst.  And his skin was positively crawling.  “Swordsman is after _you_?  Like after you, after you!  Hunting you with a strike force!  You might have mentioned that!”

“Well, it’s pretty fucking obvious,” Clint snarled back.  “I said he wanted vengeance for what happened when he was arrested.  _He_ said he wanted vengeance.  Weren’t you listening?”

“I was kinda busy dealing with Steve dying on us!” Sam snarled.  “And I was kinda hoping that meant in the near future, not _right_ _fucking now!_ ”  His eyes were bright with anger, bright and almost feverish with desperation.  “Hunting us while we hunt down Barnes.  Christ.  Because this wasn’t hard enough.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Clint declared lowly, his eyes darting among the shadows that were growing longer and heavier along the streets and in the alleys.  _No allies._   If Swordsman was hunting him, they couldn’t stay out in the open in a nest of their enemies.  “We can figure out where we stand later.”  Sam opened his mouth to say something, but Clint cut him off.  “And you can chew me out for making a huge mistake later, too.  But _let’s go._ ”

They went.  They went quickly, as fast as they could without seeming like they were running.  Clint’s nerves were ablaze, burning painfully at their exposure.  His stomach was tied into a knot, heavy inside him with the sinking sensation that they weren’t going to get out of this without a fight.

He was right.

About two blocks from where they’d parked the car, three men emerged from the alleyway to their right, sliding out from behind a dumpster swathed in darkness.  They were hired muscle and nothing more, big and burly, and the one in the middle was completely unconcerned with the fact he was holding a gun on two of the Avengers out in the open.  Clint ground his teeth together in frustration.  He glanced over his shoulder, mind racing with the options to extricate themselves from this situation preferably without causing enough bloodshed to draw attention.  When he did he spotted another group of thugs.  More guns were pointed at them.  Clint sighed.  “You’re wasting your time,” he said coldly, “and ours.”

“Get in the alley,” snapped one of them.  “And put your hands up.”  Clint and Sam didn’t, sharing doubtful glances.  They’d both been held at gunpoint enough not to be that frightened.  Or threatened.  Mostly just _annoyed_ that _this_ was happening when they didn’t have the minutes to spend dealing with it.  “Move it!” raged the man, and the ones behind them grabbed them both and shoved them to get them moving.

They were manhandled deeper into the shadows, pushed along the brownstone to their left until they were far enough from the street that no one would see.  Clint growled in the back of his throat when the gun was jabbed into his ribs.  He raised his arms, and a hand immediately reached inside his coat to yank out his hidden weapons.  They were patting down Sam, too, and extracting his gun.  Then, probably having seen him limping a little before, they kicked his injured leg.  Sam gave a muffled cry that was partly pain, partly fury, and went down hard into the dirty traces of snow covering the alley.  Clint went with him, feigning compliance to hopefully set their attackers at ease enough to get sloppy.  These sorts of thugs always overestimated their own power and underestimated anyone they had at their mercy.  All he needed to do was act beaten.  As the gun pressed into his temple, he planned his attack.

As it turned out, though, he didn’t need to.

A blur of a shadow descended from above, and something clanked to the ground behind them.  Clint whirled, catching a glimpse of a small cylindrical device.  “Cover your ears!” he gasped to Sam, and they both dropped their hands from their heads to clasp them over their ears.  The concussion grenade went off.  It had been especially designed by SHIELD to drop enemies with a blast of sound waves that could rupture ear drums and cause a loss of consciousness without much bodily harm.  Clint didn’t know if it would work on him with his hearing aids as they automatically compensated for dangerously loud noises, but he didn’t want to risk it.  It didn’t seem to.  There was force to the blast, though, enough that it shoved both Avengers into the rough brick in front of them.  Clint winced at the pain in his head as he smacked it into the building, dazed momentarily so that he didn’t quite follow what was happening.  The shadow landed, and when it did, it moved fast with a creak of leather and a flutter of cloth.  A gun went off in rapid succession, six muffled shots, and the men who hadn’t been felled by the grenade itself were now lying in the dirty alley, all unconscious.  Not hit with bullets, Clint saw in surprise.  Tranquilized.

The shadow stalked closer, and Clint was fuzzy enough not to focus for a moment.  Sam grimaced, blinking loose tears from the blast, more fearful of their would-be savior than he’d been of the men who’d almost shot them.  The blurry blackness stopped behind them, looming.  Clint couldn’t quite believe his eyes.  A brown hand reached down, obviously offering to help him up.  “Leave you guys alone for a few months,” Nick Fury said with half a smile, “and everything goes to shit.”

* * *

“No…  Don’t – don’t do this…”

“Steve, easy. ”

“Bucky!”

“Shh.  Rest.  Please.”

Natasha came awake with a gasp.  She hadn’t been dreaming really, at least not of anything she specifically remembered.  A clinging sense of _loss_ permeated her body, wracking her brain and leaving her limbs trembling and her heart shuddering in her chest.  A sob burst through her lips before she could stop it.  Loss.  Being alone.  Being _left_ alone.  “Steve,” she whispered, and she turned and stumbled from the cot outside the quarantine room to rush to the window.

Steve was resting fitfully, as fitful as she’d been it seemed, though for entirely different reasons.  His temperature was spiking consistently over 105 degrees now, and for the last couple of hours since he’d hallucinated that she was Peggy, he’d been caught in a whirlwind of nightmares, fever dreams, and illusions.  Through it all he hadn’t been strictly conscious, drifting from a somewhat peaceful slumber to a stupor of sorts where his eyes were open but he wasn’t responsive to a distressed state of near panic like he was in now.  Thor was with him, hushing him, trying to provide some comfort although Steve didn’t seem to be cognizant enough to realize it.  He’d been talking a lot, murmuring things they couldn’t quite hear and didn’t want to understand.  Memories.  Things about the war and his men.  About Peggy and losing her.  About his parents and about Barnes.  About the Avengers and SHIELD and the STRIKE Team.  It was a random stream of anguish, a twisted torment full of awful perversions of reality.  Tortures, both real and imagined.  Natasha knew a great deal of it was about her.  She’d caught her name many times.  She felt like the substance of their love was being ripped open, was hemorrhaging all over them both.  The pain they’d caused each other when she’d shot him and he’d left her.  The guilt.  The _need._   Not long ago even, he’d cried for her, cried with huge, gulping sobs, and he’d wrenched away from Thor to pace the cell as much as his deteriorating body could manage, _looking_ for her like he’d looked for her in Russia.  Terrified and frantic.  No amount of her assurances that she was there, that she was with him, could pierce the haze of his nightmare.  Only his body failing him had ended the episode, and he’d collapsed in a heap of coughing, moaning, and weeping.

This was hell, pure and simple.  _Hell._

Steve was struggling against Thor, a hand wrapped around Thor’s forearm and trying to push the demigod away.  Thor was steadfast, holding Steve gently but firmly on the bed.  “You are not well,” he said again.  He’d said it so many times.  “You are not in your right mind.”

“No!” Steve snapped.  He was fighting in earnest now, bare feet flying as he kicked, the bed quivering under the stress of it.  He was wild with delirium.  “Let go of me!  Let me _go_!”

“Steve, stop,” Thor implored, frustration bleeding into his tone.  He snatched Steve’s wrist from the air and pinned it across his chest.  This wasn’t the first punch Steve had thrown at him over the last few hours.  Some had even landed, and Thor was bruised but more sick to his heart than anything else.  “Stop!  Hear my voice and think!”

Steve wailed.  “Bucky, you don’t – don’t understand!  You don’t – no one thinks…  And I gotta be in there with her.  I just gotta, Buck.  I just gotta…”

“I know you do,” Thor soothed.  He’d been vacillating between playing along with Steve’s hallucinations and trying to dispel them.  Neither tactic was proving easy or effective.  “But you must rest.”

“Don’t wanna,” Steve slurred.  That was also particularly disturbing about all of this.  Sometimes Steve _seemed_ lucid, carrying on at least part of a logical conversation, but it was all a lie, an illusion itself, for as fast as he seemed to come to reason, he slid back into the blaze in his head just as quickly.  “Don’t wanna, Bucky.  Don’t wanna.”

“I know.”

“Please let me go.”  Tears seeped from the corners of his eyes.  “Please.  Nat needs me.”

Natasha’s heart twisted in her chest, so painful she could hardly force herself to breathe.  Thor looked up at her, disturbed and upset himself, before turning back to his charge.  No matter how many times this had happened, how many repeats of this awful scene they were forced to endure, it never got any easier.  “Yes, she does,” Thor softly said.  “She needs you to get well.  Your children need you well.  Therefore, you _need_ rest.”

His imploration was met with a desperate, horrified cough, and that led to more of the same, until Steve was choking, gagging, and finally vomiting.  Thor was prepared as this, too, had occurred far too many times.  He was ready with a basin as Steve’s body expelled the meager amount of water he’d managed to hold down and a great deal of blood.  They hadn’t been able to keep the IV delivering fluids and blood consistently in place with all of the thrashing Steve was doing.  He heaved miserably, his face a distressed shade of green as his exhausted form languished through the throes of it.  Natasha could hardly bear to watch.  It was terrible, seeing him like this.  Seeing him _reduced_ to this.  All the times she’d marveled at his strength, his resilience, his power.  How she’d fallen in love with his body, worshipped it, known it in ways no one else ever had and ever would.  It was physically painful to see it destroyed.  There were splotches under his skin, ugly, purple, spidery bruises like he’d been in an awful, violent fight only he’d never been hit.  They were burst capillaries.  Damaged muscles.  Internal bleeding, like that which gave him life was turning into poison and his body was trying to rid itself of it.  It was still coming out of his mouth in a flood.  “JARVIS,” she murmured listlessly, “tell Tony we need his help to get an IV in again.  Please.”

“Right away,” the AI returned with defeat in his tone.

Steve panted through the final waves of nausea, clinging onto Thor hard enough that the other man was wincing.  It was abating, and Steve was breathing hard, red dripping from his trembling lips down his chin to his chest.  His eyes caught hers for just a second, the briefest of glances, and they went wide, like he hadn’t realized she was there through all of this.  Then he was sobbing, his face crumpling in pain and shame.  He buried it into Thor’s shoulder.  He was whimpering something.  She couldn’t quite hear it at first.  Then she did.  A small part of her was relieved because it was the first cognizant thing he’d said in some time.  “Thor, is she…  Has she been…”

“Yes, my friend.”

Her relief was short-lived.  “… is…’tasha.”

“She is here.”

“I…  I don’t want her to see me like this… not like this.”  Tears burned Natasha’s eyes, her hands planting on the glass of their own accord, _aching_ to be in there, to be with him when he _needed her_.  Another sob prodded at her tightly closed lips, pushing and pushing.  Steve gasped a cry, his breathing faltering to the point of choking again, but he got himself under control.  “She can’t.  She shouldn’t have to…  Can’t hurt her like this!  Hurt her and the babies.  No more.”

Thor rubbed Steve’s arms gently, enfolding him into his own embrace.  Natasha shook her head, opening her mouth to proclaim to him that he wasn’t hurting her (even though this _was_ – it was hurting _so much_ ) and he wasn’t hurting the twins and he shouldn’t be so goddamn self-sacrificing at a time like this when he had so little left of himself to lose.  But before she could speak, Thor was holding her gaze.  “Natasha, perhaps you _should_ seek some reprieve.  You have endured enough of this.  There is no reason you must see more.”

Anger burst through her, hot and bright and awful.  She wanted to bang on the window, bang it and smash it until it broke.  “I’m not going,” she said, low and forceful.  Nearly challenging him to argue.  Challenging them both.  “I’m not.”

Steve was trembling so hard he was nearly shaking Thor, and that was quite a feat given how large, strong, and brave the demigod was.  She could see he was losing it again, that the respite of lucidity was once more disappearing against the onslaught of disease.  “Please.  Give him a moment to overcome this.  I will get him through.  I swear it.”  Thor’s eyes were earnest, his grip on Steve tightening as he gave a wrangled cry and struggled again.  He was too weak to break free, and Thor held him together.  “Go.  Take some time to yourself.  Clean up.  Sleep.  For your sake and the sake of the children.  Please.”  What he didn’t say was obvious.  _Honor what he wants._

She’d promised Steve she wouldn’t leave him.  How could she break that promise?

“Natasha,” Thor prompted again as Steve grew more agitated.  “Please.”

It was _so hard_ to walk away, but she had to.  She had to because it _was_ what Steve wanted.  He didn’t want her to have to witness more of this torture.  She turned away because Steve was retching again, and she didn’t _want_ to see it.  He must have thought she was out of earshot (or he was simply too far gone to care) because he moaned miserably between gasps and cried, “I don’t want to die like this!”

Thor’s voice was soft but firm.  “You will not, Steve.  I swear it by all I hold dear.  _You will not_.”

Natasha tried to cling to that as she walked from the lab, but the sobs were still itching in her throat, building and building inside her like a flood against a faltering levy, and she didn’t think she could hold them back.  Her eyes burned.  Everything ached.  The urge to let it all go was nearly overwhelming.  _He doesn’t want me there._ That should not have hurt as much as it did.  It was only logical why he didn’t, why in his one moment of reasonable thought he chose to spare her rather than say anything else.  That was Steve, through and through.  From their first mission together as partners, he’d always done what he could to protect her, to keep her safe.  Even as this virus destroyed his body and tore his mind apart, that one thing – his love for her – was shining through.  She shouldn’t have felt like this.

But nothing was making sense.  _Nothing._

Like this notion she couldn’t shake that what Bruce had suggested earlier was…  _No._   It wasn’t an option.  She’d been doing nothing over the last couple of hours other than ignoring the slightest hint of a thought about it.  _It’s not an option._   It had been the proverbial elephant in the room of her head, hulking in the shadows, stubbornly staying no matter how hard she pretended it wasn’t there.  She didn’t want to address it.  It felt inherently _wrong_ to, but…  If it could save Steve’s life, was it any better to completely disregard it?  She didn’t even know what it would entail, at least not entirely.  Bruce hadn’t been forthcoming with information.  All he’d said was there was a _possibility_ they could synthesize an antiserum from the twins, and that it _could_ be dangerous to one or both of them.  He hadn’t quantified or even qualified that.  How dangerous?  She shuddered at the thought.  Though she hadn’t always been the most willing or excited about the prospect of motherhood, it was part of her now.  In her heart.  Engrained in her spirit.  It had been from the moment she’d seen that ultrasound screen months ago and discovered there’d been not one but _two_ tiny lives growing inside her.  Bonds had formed with every flutter of movement in her womb, with every moment she’d allowed herself to picture them, with every second spent dreaming and wondering and imagining.  Loving them, despite who and what she’d been trained to be.  These were her babies.  She had a responsibility to them, a duty to them that nothing could override.  She was their mother, and she had to protect them above all else.  Above even her love for her husband and their father.  They were her children.  _Her children._

But they were Steve’s children, too.

And Steve was dying.  _Steve was dying._

And they could save him.

The circuitousness of it left her nauseous and dizzy.  She was so tired, so damn tired and sore, and she found herself crumpling against the gunmetal gray wall of the hallway outside.  It was made of some alloy of metal and plastic, hard but cool, and it was leeching the heat from her skin as she sagged into it and braced her throbbing forehead upon it.  She stood there, arms wrapped around her belly, letting the wall support her, trying to gather the remains of her composure.  As much as she wanted to, as she knew she _should,_ she couldn’t just disregard what Bruce had told her.  Steve wasn’t just dying.  He was _suffering_.  Slowly.  And she loved him far too much, _so much_ , to let this simply go on, to stand outside, protected by that goddamn wall of glass, and observe as he worsened until he died.  She needed to do _something_.

No.  What she needed was facts.  _How_ dangerous was this procedure?  Would it imperil one twin or both of them?  What were the odds of it working?  What would it entail?  She required answers to make a reasonable decision.  Bruce had been stingy with them, and she didn’t know if it was because he wasn’t certain or if he’d been trying to sway her away from this possibility.  She suspected it was both.  Still, he wouldn’t have told her about it at all if it didn’t have a chance of working.  As much as the mere thought of it ached in her brain and made her soul shiver, she needed to know more.

She was walking to his lab before she convinced herself not to.  And she was about to ask JARVIS to let her in when she caught sight of something through the mostly tinted windows along the outside.  It was the Hulk.  _The Hulk_.  In the Tower.  Panic rent Natasha, and she opened her mouth to scream to JARVIS that Thor and Stark were needed up here to stop this.  But she didn’t.  The monster wasn’t attacking, wasn’t wild with rage, wasn’t _at all_ the way he always seemed to be.  He was twitching restlessly on one side of a lab bench, almost like a caged animal uncertain if it could or should strike, if what lie before it was truly a threat.  And what was before him was a woman with long, dark brown hair.  She was tall and slender, dressed in simple jeans and a navy blue sweater, and as Natasha moved further along the window to get another vantage, she could see the woman was actually _drawing blood_ from the Hulk.  There was a huge needle in the beast’s massive forearm, and green liquid was draining into an array of test tubes.  Despite the incredible danger of the situation, the woman was calm, gentle, with open, trusting eyes.  Eyes that never left the Hulk’s, even as the beast shifted and squirmed with pent-up energy and rage.  When it was done, she pulled the needle free, and the monster growled.  She was quick to press a bandage over the small, inconsequential wound, and while she did, she lightly and slowly dragged her other hand down his forearm to his wrist.  The Hulk’s dark eyes flicked to the tender motion before returning to her face.  Natasha watched as the woman smiled softly, encouragingly, her fingertips so slight and soothing on his thick, leathery skin.  She laid the back of her seemingly tiny hand into his, his that could crush her with nary a thought, and she nodded.

As incredible as that was, it worked.  The Hulk took a few lumbering steps back, and Natasha’s eyes widened as the monster shrunk back into Bruce.  It was amazing.  She’d never seen him _willingly_ turn back before.  Every previous encounter with the Hulk had been nothing short of devastating, and aside from a few moments during the Battle of New York, the beast seemed impossible to tame.  However, this woman had managed it.  She stood, leaving the array of green blood samples on the lab bench, and handed Bruce a robe.  Bruce still seemed disoriented, panting and squinting and looking around like he didn’t quite recognize where he was.  Then his eyes focused over the woman’s shoulder on Natasha.

His mouth moved.  The door to the lab unlocked.  “Doctor Banner says you may enter,” JARVIS announced.

That had been her goal, but now Natasha was wary.  And frightened, to be honest.  But curious most of all.  So she took a deep breath and stepped inside.  “Natasha, you shouldn’t be here,” Bruce immediately warned, sticking his arms through the sleeves of the dark robe and cinching it tightly around his body like he needed the protection.  Natasha knew him well enough to see how rattled he was, how uncertain.  To her knowledge, that had been the first time he’d transformed since the insanity serum incident.  She forgot why she came for a moment, her mouth hanging open limply because all of the questions she’d had were gone.

The woman at the lab bench turned, and Natasha recognized her immediately.  She seemed surprised at the intrusion, but she smiled faintly and stood.  “Hi,” she greeted.  She held out her hand.  “I’m Betty Ross.”

Natasha couldn’t quite get her brain to process that.  She grasped Betty’s hand.  The other woman’s grip was surprisingly firm.  “Natasha Romanoff,” Natasha offered.  And then, almost automatically and without thinking, she added, “Rogers.”

Bruce looked surprised.  Frankly, she was a little, too.  But Betty only gave her a small, sad smile.  “I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances,” she said.

Natasha instinctively dropped her hands to cradle her stomach.  “So am I.”

Betty’s eyes filled with remorse.  “How is Captain Rogers?”

Swallowing was proving mighty difficult.  So was keeping her anger in check and her tears under control.  “He’s…”  She couldn’t answer.  Not the truth.  Not even a lie.  So she turned to Bruce instead.  “I, um…  I want to know more.”  She shifted her weight nervously.  God, why was this so hard?  She felt positively vile, wrong and tainted and terrible, for even _asking._   _I have to know.  I have to know if this could save him._ “I want to know more about what you said earlier.  About the chance that the twins could be used to… to cure him.”

Bruce’s expression fractured with dismay.  “Natasha, don’t–”

“Bruce, you can’t tell me what you told me and expect me not to consider it,” she said, more sharply than she intended but her composure was so frayed that she couldn’t be bothered to hide how worn and weary she was.  “I want to know more about it.  I want details and specifics.”  Bruce shared a look with Betty.  Natasha couldn’t read that.  She understood next to nothing about their relationship; the mere fact that Ross was here was downright shocking and somewhat alarming, that Bruce thought the situation was dire enough that he had weighed the benefit of her added knowledge and expertise against the threat of exposing the woman he loved to the Hulk and come to the conclusion that it was worth it.  Maybe that was irrational, but Natasha was too threadbare and battered to care.  And her patience was at its end.  “I want you to explain it to me.”

Bruce heaved a sigh.  His eyes darted to the vials of blood, frowning at them like they were poison.  Natasha had read SHIELD’s reports on Samuel Sterns and Emil Blonsky.  Perhaps they were.  “Let’s not go there just yet,” he eventually said.  “Betty and I… and Tony, too.  We’re working on something that might do it.  We’re going to try to synthesize an antiserum with the Hulk’s blood.”

She didn’t understand, although that obviously explained what they were doing before.  “The Hulk’s blood?”

Betty had already turned back to her data.  “The Hulk has an immune system that far surpasses even Captain America’s.  This is tricky, but if we can get it to work right, we won’t need your children.”

“Or Barnes,” Bruce added.  He smiled, but it was weak and timid.  Doubtful.  The faintest of hopes.  “With any luck, we’ll have something to start testing in a day.  Maybe thirty-six hours at the latest.  And, with any luck, we can bolster Steve’s immune system enough that having to develop something using the twins won’t even be necessary.  And if they can’t find Barnes or can’t bring him back, it won’t matter.”

Again, Natasha couldn’t breathe.  Was this real?  She couldn’t grasp it, what it meant.  A chance to save Steve that didn’t involve hunting for a man who didn’t want to be found or endangering their children.  Bruce read her lax expression, and his own tightened with a mixture of dread and relief.  “Don’t get your hopes up,” he warned quietly.  “This is still an incredible longshot.  This isn’t using the serum, not any part of it.  The Hulk’s blood is toxic.  Betty’s the best expert I know of on biochemistry and genetics, so we’ve got the best chance possible at making this work, but it’s still a long road ahead of us.  This does afford us the opportunity to give the procedures we’d need to use on Barnes a trial run, at least, but even if we manage to generate something useful from me, all we can do to test it is simulate it.  It’s going to have to be used without validation, and there’s no telling how the super soldier serum will react to my immune cells.  It’s unknowns layered on top of unknowns, Natasha.”

“Bruce,” Betty said.  She’d put her reading glasses back on, and she looked up at him over them.  She gave a small shake of her head, an admonishment really, a reminder to reel in his pessimism.  It was a gentle, knowing one at least.

Bruce sighed.  He took Natasha’s hands, sweeping his callused thumbs over her knuckles.  “It’s a longshot, but it’s something.”

“I’ll take anything,” Natasha replied quietly, her voice wavering almost as much as her heart in her chest.

The scientist’s smile turned tender.  “I know you will.”  He came a little closer, his expression softening further.  He seemed more relaxed than he had been earlier.  Maybe the idea of having a plan was soothing him.  Maybe it was the possibility of the Hulk’s blood being used for something good.  Maybe it was Betty.  It didn’t matter.  Seeing Brue calm and revitalized was comforting in and of itself.  He was smart and practical, and if he thought something had a chance at success, then it did.  “I know you want to talk about what I told you.  But let’s wait.  I can’t right now, not with everything we have to do in the amount of time we have to do it in.  We have to squeeze days, maybe even weeks, of work into a matter of hours.”  His gaze dropped to her stomach again.  “And I don’t even want to burden you with any of that unless there’s no choice.”

It wasn’t reasonable, not at all, but that was enough to placate her.  So she nodded and turned.  “I’ll leave so you can work,” she declared, even though she should have stayed and gotten her answers anyway because this _was_ a longshot so she needed to be prepared for any eventuality.

Bruce just nodded, grateful she understood, and saw her to the door.  He gave her a final smile, and Natasha felt just a little bit like a child being shuffled away from some place she didn’t belong.  Still, she felt so high, so _elated_ , that she really couldn’t think to stop him.

The next thing she knew, she was on her way to their suite.  And then she was peeling off the scrubs she was still wearing and showering, the hot spray massaging her aching back and hips.  She let herself linger, washing her hair, rinsing away sweat and tears and basking in hope and solace for just a moment.  It was selfish and unlike her, and she _knew_ it and hated herself just a little for it, but Thor had told her to take some reprieve, so she was.  She let her mind focus on only the thought that Bruce was going to fix this.  Bruce would.  And Betty Ross.  Betty had come to help because there was a chance they _could_ fix it.  Make Steve better.  Save his life.  She felt steadier and more certain that there was a way through this than she had so far.

She toweled her hair dry, put it into a loose braid, brushed the foul taste from her mouth, and dressed.  She did all of this feeling calm and composed.  All it took was one glance at their bed, however, to bring her crashing back down.  It was still disheveled and unmade from when she and Steve had been unceremoniously awakened during the night before so that Steve could lead the Avengers and save the world’s leaders.  That seemed like a lifetime ago.  She was tired, more tired than she could ever remember feeling, but the idea of falling asleep there, _without him_ , was too painful to really consider.  His coat was draped on the chair.  That she grabbed with shaking fingers, bringing it to her face and taking a deep, shaking breath like an addict longing for release.  The distance between them was seemingly infinite as she inhaled his scent, the ghost of his warmth still clinging to the fabric.  _I’m not going to cry.  I’m not.  I’m better than this.  I’m not going to let go.  I’m not!_

She tossed his coat in anger and made to leave as quickly as her aching feet and tired legs and pregnant body could take her.  When she passed the vanity, she stopped.  Without a second thought she was there, pulling open the drawer and pawing through its meager contents until she found what she needed.  Her thumb swept over the gleaming silver surface of his dog tags.  _“Rogers, Steven G.”_   She stared at his name, at the familiar serial number she’d memorized during those long, cold, lonely nights in St. Petersburg when she’d been waiting for him to find her.  She sniffled, wiping stubbornly at her raw eyes, and slipped the tags over her head and tucked them down into her bra between her breasts.  Their weight was familiar and comforting.  She hadn’t worn them since he’d married her, but she remembered well how they felt against her skin.  She didn’t believe in nonsense like luck or destiny, but these dumb trinkets had brought him to her when she’d needed him.  They’d somehow kept them _together_ when everything else had threatened to tear them apart.  Maybe they’d do the same now.

Resolved and refreshed, she headed out of their suite and back down to the quarantine level.  The elevator opened, and she walked out, head held high and heart stalwart in her chest.  She was met with something that again dashed her spirits.

Thor was outside the quarantine cell.  While she’d been gone, he’d changed out of the scrubs he’d been wearing into his battle attire.  His red cape lapped against his heels as he paced the length of the window uneasily.  When he caught sight of her, he dropped his arms from his chest and came closer.  “Natasha,” he called quietly.

Natasha looked into the cell.  Steve was back on the bed, sleeping it seemed, more peaceful than he had been in some time.  The mess of blood and vomit was gone without a trace.  He was dressed in new pajamas, tucked under fresh sheets and a clean blanket, and his hair and face looked recently washed.  As she had thousands of times over the last twelve hours, she glanced at the monitors displaying his vital signs.  Nothing had gotten better, but nothing was significantly worse, either.  “Natasha,” Thor prompted again.  With some effort, she turned away from Steve and focused on the Asgardian.  He gave a sad smile.  “I am leaving.”

 _No.  Not him, too._ “What?”

“I have alerted Stark.  He is coming to care for Steven in my stead.”

She couldn’t believe this.  Betrayal, sharp and acrid, made her throat tighten.  “You’re leaving?  Where are you going?”

Thor came closer to her as if he didn’t want to be overheard, though they were alone and Steve was asleep.  “I did not wish to tell you this lest my efforts prove in vain, but…”  He dropped his voice even further.  “There is someone on Asgard who I hold in very high esteem.  He is Heimdall, the watchman, the guardian of the Bifrost, the sentinel who protects our realm.  He is blessed with vision, the ability to see all in our universe.  All things and all people.”

For a moment, she didn’t understand what he was telling her.  Then it clicked into place.  _All people._ “You think he can help us find the Winter Soldier.”

Thor nodded, but his eyes were dark and grave.  “Perhaps.  He does not lightly use his gifts, and the toils of men rarely interest him.  However, he is my friend, and I might be able to convince him to aid us.  Steve is a great man, true of character, and a mighty warrior.  If I can prove his merits to Heimdall, he might judge him worthy and do what he can to save his life.”  Thor grasped her shoulders.  “That is why I must go.  Any chance, however slight, is worth taking if it will bring Steve back to us.”

This was happening so quickly.  Just like that, Clint and Sam had left to find Barnes.  And now and again, Thor was departing to attempt to do the same.  Thor, who’d been such a source of calm and strength for both her and Steve during this ordeal.  Thor was leaving.

And she had to let him go.  Any chance was worth taking.

So she nodded, and he cupped her face before kissing her brow warmly.  “Have faith,” he whispered down onto the crown of her head.  “Have it and keep it.  I will come back as soon as I can.”  He pulled away.  With a flutter of his cape, he was gone.

She was alone.

The room was silent, ominously so.  The quiet was heavy, weighing her down until she could hardly stand it.  Wearily she grabbed one of the chairs and dragged it over to the window of the quarantine room, which was quickly becoming covered in hand prints and smudges and smears of sweat.  The sound of the metal legs scraping over the floor was thunderous.  After positioning it, she settled herself and stared inside the cell, trying not to think, not to despair.  Not to realize that Thor was gone and Sam was gone and Clint was gone.  Not to concentrate on the fact that she’d have to rely on Tony from here on out, Tony who she couldn’t stand to think about let alone trust right now.  And Barnes.  The bitter anger and rage inside her was growing, contempt for him and all the damage he’d done.  It wasn’t rational.  _This_ wasn’t his fault, but she blamed him all the same.  She blamed him for not being there now when Steve needed him.  She blamed him for taking her friends from her, for causing this ridiculous quest in the first place.  She _hated_ him more than ever before.

She tried not to think about _any_ of that.

The babies kicked her.  _Peace,_ she implored, looking down.  Her stomach twitched beneath the cotton of her sweater, and tears burned her eyes.  One fell, splattering on the gray fabric stretched over her belly.  “Please.”

“Nat?”  She looked up sharply, her heart leaping, and found Steve staring at her with bleary eyes.  As usual, they didn’t quite focus.  A few blinks later, though, _they did._   “Nat,” he whispered again.  He was too worn, too pained and beaten, to move, limp on the bed.  But his gaze held hers, unwavering for this one moment.  “What’re you…  Told you to go.  Told you to–”

“Shut it, Rogers,” she said, wiping at her cheeks.  “Remember what I told you?”  She planted her hands on the glass again, feeling the weight of his dog tags shift against her skin and settle over her heart.

“No,” he whispered.  His eyes slipped closed, his dried, torn lips barely shifting around the breathy words.  “What?”

She smiled weakly.  “You don’t get to give me orders.  You’re not sending me away.  And you don’t get to tell me what to do.”

He actually smiled back.  “Wouldn’t… wouldn’t dream of it.”

“So I’m staying right here with you.  I promised you I would.  Remember?”

“…’member.”

“This is a promise I’m keeping.”  _Have faith.  Keep it._ “I’m not leaving you, and I don’t care what happens.”  _How hard it is to watch.  How much it hurts._ “I don’t care.  I love you, Steve.  You’re my partner, my…  My husband.”  _My life._ “You’re my life.”  She swallowed down that lump finally.  “And we’re walking this road together.”

_Wherever it takes us._

* * *

There was a bad pun or two Sam could have made about Fury rescuing them “in the nick of time” or some such, but he couldn’t find it within himself to say much of anything as the ex-SHIELD Director led them through the darkened New York City streets to a warehouse not too far from Hell’s Kitchen.  Clint drove the SUV at Fury’s quiet direction, the archer silent and clearly shaken by his former boss’ sudden appearance.  Frankly, Sam was, too.  “Right there,” the older man said softly, and Clint turned them into a loading dock.  Fury hopped out of the car once it was stopped and pulled open the rusted over garage door.  Clint took the car inside.  The place was dark, shadowy, and very clearly abandoned, save for one little section that had once been an office.  The three men exited the car.  Just because he felt safer with it, Sam took Steve’s shield.

Inside the office, things were still dark and not entirely inviting.  There was a laptop, a few tablet computers, and a ton of papers on a recently cleaned desk.  The documents were maps, files, and the sorts of things one would expect from someone doing a significant amount of research and investigation.  There was also a slew of weapons in cases against the wall and a box with food and medical supplies.  Sam couldn’t help but wonder if Fury had been there a while.  It didn’t seem like it from the amount of dust covering everything save the desk and chair.  But then he spotted the cot against the far wall.  “How long have you been here?”

Fury went to the computer and began typing.  “Set this place up maybe four months ago.”

Anger burst through Sam, shredding the remains of his control.  “Four months ago!” he snapped.  “You mean you were _here_ when everything was going down with HYDRA and the insanity serum?  You were here and you didn’t help us?”

Fury appraised him coolly with his single eye.  He was dressed in dark jeans and a dark sweatshirt with a black leather jacket over it.  Even like this, a civilian for all intents and purposes, he was intimidating.  “The world needed to see that it still had the Avengers,” he answered tersely, “and the Avengers needed to see they have each other.”  He turned back to what he was typing.  “Besides it seemed like you had it in hand.”

Sam couldn’t believe this.  It was fucking _bullshit_.  “Clint died!” he railed, gesturing at Barton, who was pale and seemingly lost again.  His eyes were empty.  Sam was shaking with his rage.  “Did you know that?  He fucking _died._ ”

“Yes,” Fury said simply.

“And you didn’t care.”

“Sam,” Clint said softly.  How could he be okay with this?  Fury had hung them out to dry during the insanity serum incident.  The city had nearly been flooded with rage-inducing poison.  They’d all almost been killed.  If the Hulk had gotten loose of that warehouse in New Jersey…  “It doesn’t matter now.”  He seemed to gather himself, focusing and folding his arms across his chest.  “How did you know where to find us?”

That was a valid question.  As far as Sam knew, Clint hadn’t told anyone that he was trying to press Fisk for information.  Yet Fury had shown up exactly when they’d needed him to.  He might have been the world’s best spy, but there was no such thing as magic.  “While the battle against Lukin and Malik was going on here, I was trying to hunt down the items stolen from the Fridge and SHIELD STATION, the scepter included.  I was on the down-low, sneaking around in Europe, gathering up intel and taking out HYDRA’s soldiers where I could.  I learned some interesting things about HYDRA’s upper echelons, figuring if I could discover who was in charge of the remaining forces, I could track down the scepter.  But I came back this morning as soon as I could.”  He sighed and regarded his former top agent.  “It was hard to miss the Cap collapsing when it was playing on every newsfeed around the world.”  Sam closed his eyes.  He supposed this was one time, at least, when the media coverage was playing to their favor.  “Got back here a few hours ago and contacted Hill.  She tracked your StarkPhones.  I figured you were probably about to do something stupid.”  Fury shook his head sadly.  “Going to Wilson Fisk for information is about as stupid as getting yourself infected with some sort of deadly alien virus.”

That low simmering anger burst upward inside Sam.  “This isn’t Steve’s fault,” he forcefully declared.

Fury practically ignored him.  “And Romanoff’s pregnant.”  This he said to Barton, and he was looking for confirmation, like the photos and buzz and speculation circulating the media wasn’t enough.  Clint was jabbing his teeth into his lower lip if the movement of his jaw was evidence.  Fury sighed through his nose, gritting his teeth and shaking his head in a mixture of anger and grief.  “Never saw that coming.”

“I trust you’re here with something more than just condolences,” Clint said.  His tone was cold, and his eyes were heavy with disquiet.  “Sir.”

Fury gathered himself with his usual aplomb.  “I am,” he affirmed, turning back to his laptop.  Clint moved closer so he could see, and Sam took that as permission to do the same.  “Hill told me Banner thinks he can develop a cure for Rogers with Barnes’ blood.”

“Yes,” Clint said.

“Irony doesn’t begin to cover that,” Fury commented lowly, his fingers fast over the keyboard.  “During the last few months, I’ve been trying to keep half an eye out for the Winter Soldier.  Rogers let him walk, which was his prerogative I suppose, but it was a dangerous decision.  Barnes is not stable.”

“We know,” Sam said shortly.

Fury narrowed his eyes.  “Finding him has been a challenge, even for me.  The man’s a ghost, but, believe it or not, he’s actually left a very odd and a very particular trail.”

That gave Sam pause.  A trail?  He couldn’t quite comprehend that for a moment.  Fury had located Bucky’s trail.  Suddenly all of his anger and irritation all but disappeared.  Fury actually _had_ something to offer.  _Fury knew where Bucky was._ “What?”

Fury tapped a few keys on his laptop, and a map came up.  It was one of Long Island.  There were dozens of dots on the map from the west areas close to the city all the way east near Montauk.  Sam had no idea what he was looking at.  “Over the previous weeks, there’s been a series of robberies on Long Island.  They’re not what you would call typical targets.  Someone has been breaking into public records offices, the DMV, lawyer’s offices, even a police station or two.  No murders.  A few guards and night shift officers were knocked out, but nothing more serious than that.  Nobody has seen a thing.  Whoever’s doing it is a professional.”

“Barnes?” Clint asked, clearly confused.

Fury cocked an eyebrow.  “Sometimes things were taken.  Sometimes not.”

“What sort of things?” Sam asked.

Fury looked at him plainly.  “Public records.  What else is there to take?”

He didn’t appreciate the sarcasm.  “Right.  But of what?”

“And why steal them if they’re public?”

“Because they’re old.”  Fury brought up some scanned documents.  “At first glance it’s not easy to tell what this is about.  There are only digital copies of a few records, but they seem to pertain to a case from fifteen years ago.  A very particular case.”  He brought one to the forefront.  “This was the most recent theft from a police station outside Massapequa yesterday.”

It was a personnel profile for a retired detective.  “Walter Murray,” Clint read, his eyes dark and his brow creased in confusion.  There was nothing interesting about this guy at all.  If this file was true, he’d faithfully served the Nassau Country Police Department for thirty-five years, his whole career nearly, before retiring in 2002.  He looked like a normal guy, a little portly but with a genial face.  And he had an exemplary service record.  What did this guy have to do with anything?  Was he HYDRA?  “Who is this?”

“This is the man who was the primary detective on the accident that killed Howard and Maria Stark,” Fury said.  _Oh, my God,_ Sam thought.  _He’s remembering._   “Knowing that, linking the thefts together got a lot easier.  The DMV records for Stark’s car.  The accident reports from the first cops on the scene.  Insurance claims.  Anything and everything related to that night, December 17th, 1991.  This guy, Murray, thought it was suspicious how they’d died, but there was never enough evidence to rule the Starks’ deaths as homicides.”

“But they were,” Sam said.  “Barnes murdered them.”  That had been revealed during the massive file dump of SHIELD’s secrets.

Fury nodded.  “Looks like someone’s cracking into his own past.”

Still, this didn’t make sense.  “So he’s after Murray?  Why?  He got off clean with the assassination of Stark’s parents.”  Then Clint’s eyes darkened.  “Is he trying to kill this guy?  Shut him up in case he suddenly comes forward?  But you said he could never prove anything, even if he knew enough to build a case.”

“I don’t know,” Fury replied.  “There’s no concrete evidence that our mystery burglar even is Barnes.  But I don’t believe in coincidences.  And if it is…”  He shook his head, deep in thought.  “I can’t even begin to tell what you what’s going on inside the head of a brainwashed ex-HYDRA assassin from World War II, but it seems to me he’s trying to find answers.”

That… somehow made sense.  Steve had gotten through to Barnes back in DC and again in Times Square.  He’d gotten through the machine to man the beneath the programming.  So maybe that was what Bucky was doing.  Trying to verify who he was, what he’d done.  Trying to understand.  Maybe even trying to come to terms with it.  That gave Sam hope, perhaps prematurely, because if Barnes was aware and processing right and wrong enough to regret the horrors he’d done…  Maybe, just maybe, they could convince him to let down his guard enough to come back with them.  And if he was remembering who he was, then maybe he was remembering Steve enough to want to save his life.  He had before.

Fury could see they’d come to the same conclusion.  Clint pulled a map of the United States out from the pile of papers on the desk.  “There a current address on this guy?”

Fury nodded, pointing to a small town on the map that was in the Midwest, pretty squarely in the center of the country.  “Clarkston.  It’s maybe an hour south of Lincoln, Nebraska.  Apparently Murray moved there to be closer to his kids after he retired and his wife died.”

“Then let’s get out there,” Clint declared resolutely.  The tired, defeated slump of his posture was gone, and his face was set into a determined frown.  “He’s got a day’s head start, but if we move fast, maybe we can get there before he does.  We’ll need to go back to the Tower to get the jet.”

“Not necessary,” Fury said.  “I’ve got wings of my own here.  We can be there in less than hour.  I’ll drop you two and then come back here, in case we were wrong about his intentions.  There are some leads I can follow out on Long Island, other offices he might strike looking for information.  In the meantime, we’ll stay in communication.”  He closed his laptop with a snap, fishing his phone and a gun from the mess of documents.  “Understood?”

Clint shared a look with Sam, reeling a bit perhaps from this sudden change of trajectory.  But somethings didn’t change, apparently.  Despite everything that had happened and all he’d done, Fury was still calling the shots.  And Barton was still following his orders.  “Alright.  Let’s go.”

They quickly exited the office, but before they could cross the warehouse to the steps that led to the roof, Fury stopped them.  “There’s one more thing,” he said.  Now his gaze was firmly fixated on Clint.  “I think I told you once that the past always seeks its due.”  A chill inexplicably made its way up Sam’s spine.  Fury sighed.  “I made some interesting discoveries while I was hunting down the scepter, and I can tell you it’s Strucker who wants you dead.”

Sam didn’t understand.  “We know that.”

“No.  Not the Baron.  Not Wolfgang von Strucker.”  Fury’s eye narrowed.  “It’s Andreas von Strucker.  The Swordsman.”  He turned away, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe the way so many seemingly separate threads had twisted themselves together.  “Baron von Strucker’s brother.”


	9. Chapter 9

Decades before Hawkeye joined SHIELD and saved Black Widow from the Red Room, before Captain America was found in the ice and Iron Man was born in a desert, before the Hulk emerged from the shell of a man and Thor dropped from the sky, _before_ the Avengers had ever formed, Andreas and Wolfgang von Strucker had an argument.  They’d been barely more than boys at the time, young men newly sent into the world after their father’s untimely death.  Their sire, Wilhelm von Strucker, had been a strange man, stern in his teachings about the glory of their family, the legacy of HYDRA.  The time would come, as he’d told his sons Wolfgang the older and Andreas the younger, when the Aryan race would reclaim its rightful place at the very apex of humanity.  When HYDRA would rise from the ashes of defeat, burst through the corpse of its would-be oppressor, and wrap the world in its tentacles.  He’d raised them with these teachings like a sacred dogma, that though the leadership of HYDRA might vary, the Strucker family was instrumental to its lasting power.  He’d instilled into them a need to crush opposition, to destroy those who’d dared to defy, to annihilate anyone who stood in their way or damaged their bloodline.  Those were his goals, to train his sons to be the swift swords of HYDRA.

Andreas had taken that rather literally.  Being the younger son, his role had always been assumed to be lesser, a follower rather than a leader, a second in command but never in command himself.  Wilhelm had schooled him in a slightly different legacy, one that went back to the glorious days of HYDRA’s supremacy when Josef von Strucker had wielded an actual sword in the defense of the Red Skull’s aspirations.  Andreas was trained to be an enforcer, and Wilhelm had taught him well, bestowing upon him countless hours of instruction in martial arts, in weaponry both modern and archaic.  And, like his grandfather, he’d taken a particular liking to fencing.  He’d exceled at it, practicing to the exclusion of all else.  While Wolfgang had been learning tactical thought and logistical planning and the myriad ways to control men, Andreas had learned the weight of a sword in his hand and all styles of fighting with one.  While Wolfgang’s hatred of Captain America, of the United States and its allies, of _everyone_ who stood in his way grew, Andreas’ anger was far less specific so the violence that stemmed from it was completely indiscriminant.  While Wolfgang knew the litany of HYDRA’s long history better than he knew anything else, Andreas found he couldn’t care less.  And Wolfgang had a flat affect, cold, calculating, ruthless, and completely uninspired and therefore uninspiring.  Andreas was much the opposite, overly interesting, overly alluring, wild and fiery and unkempt.  Soon it became obvious with Wolfgang’s lack of flair and Andreas’ overabundance of it that Wilhelm was training a leader with no charisma and a weapon with no useful target.

Therefore, his death cut the only connection his sons had had between them.  And the argument between the brothers had been harsh.  Wolfgang had ascended to the “throne” of HYDRA some months prior, this mantle of would-be leadership, but Andreas argued the crown was worth nothing with only a down-trodden kingdom of hidden servants to rule.  At that time, HYDRA was nothing more than a memory to most, a shade of its former glory, and its prospects were few.  Patience had never been a virtue of Andreas’ in anything save his precision with a blade, so as Wolfgang advocated waiting until the proper moment to rise again, he impulsively went forward with blind, random acts of vigilantism (in his mind, at any rate – to the rest of the world, these attacks were nothing but terrorism).  Attacking an embassy here or there.  Robbing a few banks blind.  Stealing weapons and reselling them on the black market.  Andreas favored anarchy over unity, and though he was not the only member of HYDRA to think that way, it was not a popular mindset with the organization so damaged and downtrodden. With Zola’s demise some years before and their father’s recent passing, there needed to be an assertion of dominance or the splintering that had begun after losing Schmidt would overrun the last remnants of structure.  And therein was the heart of their disagreement: Wolfgang believed in tyranny to maintain order over the weak while Andreas envisioned a world where chaos differentiated between those meant to flourish and those meant to suffer.  Though both ended in evil and oppression, they weren’t easily reconcilable, and the brothers, as well as all those who served them, knew it.

After Andreas had purposefully stirred a hornet’s nest in the Middle East which had endangered HYDRA’s operations there and forced SHIELD’s involvement, Wolfgang gave Andreas a chance to remedy his behavior, to fall in line with his command and serve the greater will of HYDRA.  In this, no pleas were spoken.  Love and loyalty were not factors.  Wolfgang had offered but a single chance for Andreas to rejoin the cause, and that single chance had been summarily thrown back into his face.  The argument devolved into a battle, a single man with a sword against the whole of HYDRA in their father’s castle.  Andreas had cut through his enemies, surviving certain death and escaping Wolfgang’s reaches.  He was flushed from Germany and into the open.  As skilled as he was, he stood no chance of survival in Europe with all that was left of his father’s empire bearing down upon him.  So he’d fled.

According to Fury’s research, he disappeared after that, after the battle where the Swordsman was born and became legend.  The ex-SHIELD Director relayed this information to Sam and Clint as he flew them across the country, reciting it like he was reading a biography.  Wolfgang had become the new Baron von Strucker, hiding himself within HYDRA and SHIELD until the opportune moment to strike.  Conversely, Andreas had all but vanished, leaving no trace of where he’d gone or what had happened to him.  Yet somewhere, somehow he’d become Jacques Duquesne, supposed French Olympic fencing medalist.  How that connection had come into being, Fury claimed, could only be discovered regressively using the assumption that Duquesne was somehow related to Strucker.  Apparently Hill, with the aid of JARVIS, had discovered the missing link recently, just as Fury had made contact with her.  With what Fury had unearthed while he’d snooped around the HYDRA installations across Europe, it was clear the great falling-out between Wolfgang and Andreas von Strucker had occurred in March 1980.  That was the last reported sighting of Andreas von Strucker that they could confirm from some old logs Fury had pilfered from a HYDRA outpost near Strasbourg.  That was when Jacques Duquesne had been attending university in Montreux.  It wasn’t much of a stretch to fathom that Andreas and Jacques had somehow crossed paths in that time.  They didn’t have much on Duquesne’s past, but what they did know was he was something of a loner, fairly standoffish and friendless.  He’d left Sin-Cong on bad terms with his father and at odds with everyone, including the Olympic officials and team.  Perhaps he’d gone to Europe to try to start a new life and he’d unfortunately run into or picked a fight with Andreas.  In the aftermath with a dead body before him, Andreas had been the one to start that new life.  A new life and new identity to shield him from HYDRA.  And no one had really noticed.

They had some evidence that confirmed that theory.  JARVIS had located some old pictures of young Jacques Duquesne from the 1976 Olympics (because the 1980 games had been boycotted by the US and most the world, images in general were difficult to find, let alone images of a less popular sport like fencing).  A face comparison of the current images of Duquesne taken in Geneva with the Duquesne of 1976 revealed some slight but significant differences.  Simulating aging from the younger man to the older man didn’t quite line up with what the current Jacques Duquesne looked like.  However, comparing the Swordsman with images they had of Josef and Wilhelm von Strucker and the scant pictures Fury had managed to acquire of Wolfgang von Strucker…  There was no doubt they were blood relations.

So Sam had been right all along.  Jacques Duquesne was Andreas von Strucker’s alias.  Still, there were questions unanswered and a lot of them.  How and why had Strucker come to the United States?  And why in the world had he ended up in a traveling circus?  They didn’t have solid information to those points, but Clint thought it was pretty damn obvious and lined up well with what _he_ knew of the man.  The circus was safe, a place where he could be the Swordsman, this legend with which he’d probably fallen in love, without fear of his brother finding him.  It was a place steeped in anarchy, where chaos weeded out the weak.  A world dictated by natural selection, where power lay with who was the strongest, the best, the most fit to kill and consume and _win._   He’d ruled that little world with wild abandon, with every bit of who he was.  Ruthless.  Cruel.  Brazen and bold.  It had been a little dark corner, a microcosm of _exactly_ what he’d wanted, and he’d _flourished_ in it.

All of this was important, a glimpse into the underpinnings of HYDRA.  And it was entirely relevant to figuring out what the current Baron von Strucker was up to, hunting him down, and getting the scepter back, as well as all the other stolen items from SHIELD.  But Clint couldn’t bring himself to care.  It didn’t matter right now.  Duquesne being Strucker’s younger brother, heir to a legacy of bloodshed and evil…  That _didn’t matter_.  They had a more important job to do.  As Fury capably flew them deep into the American Midwest, he could only hope that Duquesne would stay away long enough for them to do it, that they’d find Barnes and get him back to the Tower so Banner and Stark could work their magic before Rogers died.  He had a feeling that was a tall order.  With the way things had been going in his life lately, ever since Natasha and Steve had been sent with the STRIKE Team to Crimea – _no,_ since Loki had stuck his fucking fingers into his brain three years ago – he doubted he’d be so lucky.

“Do we have a plan here, or are we just going to waltz up to this dude’s house and tell him the world’s deadliest assassin is probably going to come knocking?” Sam asked, standing behind the cockpit of the SHIELD quinjet.  He was tired and irritated, dressed now in his combat suit with his wings on his back and ready for flight.  “Because something tells me that’s not going to go over too well.”

Clint glanced at the navigation on the jet.  They’d be there in less than ten minutes.  “Get in.  Assess the situation.  If he’s already been there, we pick up the trail.  If not, we establish surveillance of the house.  It’s probably not smart to make contact with Murray until we can ascertain if Barnes has come and gone.”

Sam didn’t look pleased with that.  “Why the hell not?”

Clint turned back to him.  “Barnes is careful.  He probably won’t get near this place if he thinks he’s been made.”

Sam frowned even harder.  “We can’t use this guy as bait without his consent.  Barnes could kill him before we could stop him.”

“If that’s what he’s after,” Fury threw in.

Clint wasn’t interested in playing devil’s advocate here.  “It doesn’t matter what he’s after.”

Fury glanced at him sternly.  It was an empty look, nothing but firm, but Clint had seen it enough over the last decade of his life to know what it meant.  It was a silent, disappointed reminder that _he should know better._   “It might.”

Clint wasn’t in the mood to be reprimanded right now.  The more he’d been considering it, the more he wondered if Stark’s harsher approach might not be the better course.  For all they knew, Barnes could be about as sane as a bag of cats.  He’d been on the wrong side of right enough times to want to give him the benefit of the doubt, to give him a chance to do the right thing, but he knew, too, that sometimes that wasn’t practical.  They didn’t have the time to coax or cajole or lure Barnes down the right path.  Steve didn’t have time.  If it came down to it, they’d have to capture him and bring him in by whatever means necessary.  If they could, of course.  And they’d have to sort out the emotional impact of that later.  Again, _if they could_.

Fury’s eye shifted to him once or twice more during the remainder of the flight.  He could do without that, without Fury’s fucking scrutiny.  And he couldn’t help but wonder if the other man knew something they didn’t.  Fury was a sneaky son of a bitch, and it wouldn’t surprise him if he did.  But what?  And even if the master spy liked playing his hand close to his chest, which Clint knew he did, he wouldn’t be so callous and cruel to do that _now_ , now when Steve’s life was in the balance.  There was nothing to be gained.  If there was one thing he was sure about when it came to Nick Fury, it was that he’d wanted the world to have the Avengers.  And the Avengers needed Captain America.  Cast aside everything else, Fury’s relationship with Natasha or Steve or _any_ of them, Fury’s own well-masked humanity, and there was that.  The cold practicality of it.  There had to be that.

“You got anything useful to add, Wilson?” Fury said after a beat of uncomfortable silence.

Clint glanced behind him just in time to see Sam’s jaw clench in frustration.  “Not really,” he admitted.  He misread Fury’s sigh as irritation and went on defensively.  “The sum total of my time with him has been spent terrified of him, with all due respect.  The one time he wasn’t _trying_ to kill me and everyone else, I was too shocked and too damned busy trying to figure out how to get out of the mess we were in to talk to him.  And when I did try, he bolted.  I don’t know what to tell you.”  They hit some turbulence as they descended through the clouds, and he steadied himself on the back of Clint’s chair.  “Look, I don’t think he’ll murder me outright, but I haven’t thought much beyond that.”

“But he knows Rogers,” Fury said, obviously looking for confirmation.

Sam shrugged helplessly.  He looked trouble, lost, and so very worried.  “I don’t know.  I think so.  He knew him enough to save us back in Prague.  I don’t think he would have acted if Steve hadn’t gotten hurt.  And Steve told me he got through to him back at the Triskelion when he was…”  Sam didn’t finish, but Clint knew the end of it.  _When he was torturing him.  This situation is beyond fucked up._   “He got through to him there.  And again when Natasha was shot.  And _again_ when Steve took down Omega Red.  If that’s not a pattern of behavior, I don’t know what is.  I don’t know anything about this guy, who he was before HYDRA got him, but I get the impression he protected Steve a lot when they were kids.  Took care of him.”  His dark eyes appraised Clint solemnly, and Clint knew exactly what he was thinking.  What he was remembering.  Steve, bent and bruised and broken, shaking with the fact his best friend, his _brother_ , had been turned against him.  _“Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky.”_

Sam sighed.  “Stark told me to drop him, but I think what you said back at the Tower is right.  We need Bucky, not the Winter Soldier.  Bucky knows Steve.  That survived all the awful shit HYDRA did to him.  So going in there with guns blazing is not the answer.”

 _Damn it._   Clint couldn’t deny the urge to do just that was itching beneath his skin, hot in his blood.  And it was a knee-jerk reaction, completely inappropriate and selfish because if it wasn’t for his own past troubling him, he’d have more patience and control.  As it was, he wanted to find Barnes, to get this over with, to get him back to the Tower and save Rogers and repay what he owed him and see Natasha _smile_ again…  And then…  He didn’t know what.  Run.  Run and get this heat away from his team, his friends.  The closest thing he’d had to a family in forever, when he really thought about it.  That aching, miserable thought in his heart suddenly thrummed loudly and undeniably.  _I’m dead.  I died and didn’t come back.  I have no place with them._

_“This isn’t your place, Clint.  Think about what you’re doing!  You want to be a murderer?  ’Cause that’s what he’ll turn you into.  A cold-blooded killer.  That isn’t what you want!”_

_“Maybe that’s what I was born to be, though.  A killer.”_

He closed his eyes.  He’d told Natasha once that loving Captain America didn’t erase her sins, didn’t change her past.  And it didn’t, but he’d been wrong, _so wrong,_ because it _had_ made her a better person.  Someone worthier, a hero in her own right.  Duquesne was right; he’d _never_ be that.  Never be a good man, a decent man who could walk proudly in the light, and he couldn’t let the ugly filth of the things he’d done threaten her and her family or _any_ of them.  And he couldn’t deny that he was jealous, that he wanted something of that for himself.  In the wake of SHIELD’s collapse, they’d both been cut free, left anchorless on a black, roiling sea, but her redemption had come to her.  Her absolution.  His…  He was never going to find it.

When this was over, when he brought back Barnes and made sure Natasha was safe and happy, he would quit the Avengers and get the hell away from them.  He’d give Duquesne a chase, and when the Swordsman finally caught up to him, they’d have their promised duel.  Only one of them would walk away from that, of that he was sure.  He wasn’t sure he cared if it was him.

_“Sometimes you gotta walk through the fire, kid.  You’ll burn, no doubt about that.  Question is: do you die, or do you become something else?”_

“How do you want to handle this, Barton?” Fury eventually asked, pulling him from his thoughts.  Clint forced himself to focus.  They were nearly there now, zooming over barren farmland in the middle of nowhere.  Fucking Podunk, USA.  Somewhere someone was laughing about this, that the fate of Captain America and the Avengers was coming down to a small town out here where things were quiet and quaint and very far from life as they knew it.  Insignificance suddenly gaining massive importance.  “Barton.”  There was no denying the concern in Fury’s voice, not this time, and Clint turned to him.  “You got your head in the game here?  Because I don’t think we can afford you not being up to this.”

“I’m up to it,” he snapped angrily, not doing a damn thing to hide it.  And he was.  He’d volunteered for this because he knew something about what Barnes was going through, too.  He owed Steve this, and he was damn well going to deliver.  “Let’s assess the situation when we land.  If contact with Murray is the best option, we’ll do it.  If not, we’ll figure it out, wait until Barnes makes a move while searching the surrounding area.  You said you had leads to chase down on Long Island.  Chase them.”  He made tone commanding so there was no argument.  And there was none.  Fury turned his gaze back to Clarkson, which was fast approaching.  The conversation died.

They kept mostly in the clouds as they neared, not wanting to risk being spotted.  This really was a little nothing place, the town simply a main thoroughfare with a few surrounding streets.  It was well past sunset now, almost eight o’clock, and given the cold March night, everything looked fairly deserted.  Around the town proper there were a few homes, those that weren’t attached to farmland, little colonial houses that were well kept but nothing special.  And beyond that were fields.  Clint stared at them.  They were dark and covered with snow, stretching in squares for miles like a patchwork quilt of white and gray and brown.  They found the fields that belonged to Murray’s property via the GPS; there was simply no other way to tell with how everything looked the same.  Fury swung them around near the edge of the one of the pastures.  Then he set the quinjet down.

Clint was out of the copilot’s chair quickly, grabbing his gear, his bow and his quiver and a couple of handguns.  He was fast, efficient, honing in on the job to keep everything else at bay and his head in the game.  He checked the guns, holstering one on each thigh.  Then he strapped on his quiver, making certain his bow would come free easily and that his combat knife along the underside of it was accessible, before turning to the rear of the jet where Sam was readying his own equipment.  He didn’t get far.  “Clint.”  Fury’s hand was tight on his arm where he’d grabbed it.  Clint swallowed down his pounding heart, the pain in his chest.  As much as he didn’t think he could tolerate his former boss’ scrutiny and chastisement, he knew he couldn’t bear this right now.  Judgment.  _Disappointment._

But that wasn’t it.  “Wherever this takes you,” Fury said softly, his eye calm and focused firmly on his former agent, “don’t forget where you’ve been.  Who you are.  I told Romanoff once that she wasn’t the same person who came before me years ago looking for a second chance.  You aren’t, either.”  His tone dropped even lower.  “And I told you once not to trust anyone, but I didn’t mean for you to include yourself in that.”

Clint wanted to wrench away, _run away_.  He hadn’t wanted to so badly since he’d been a kid, hiding in the shadows of his bunk at the Roberts Boys’ Home outside Des Moines, listening to the other boys fight and hoping he wouldn’t get hurt, hoping Barney would hurry up and get back to bed so he wouldn’t be alone, that Barney would _get them out of there…_   “I’ve got this, sir.”  He hadn’t even thought to speak, but the words were out of his mouth all the same.  “Permission to complete the mission.”

Fury’s expression softened further to a faint frown.  “Granted.”

Clint forced himself to hold Fury’s gaze a moment more, to be the man Fury had helped him become, before heading to the rear of the jet.  Sam was waiting for him, Steve’s shield on his arm.  He was carrying it around rather possessively, when Clint thought about it, but he wasn’t going to say anything to disabuse him of it.   Sam eyed him warily before punching the ramp release.  It descended quickly with a hydraulic hiss, and they were off into the field.

Ice crunched under their boots.  Mud squelched.  The dead stalks of corn from last year’s harvest, brown and blond and bent, broke under their weight as they proceeded across the field.  Fury took off again, the quinjet quiet as it headed up into the night.  They were alone in short order, and the world was silent around them.  It was far too early in the year for bugs, not with the air this chilly, so there was nothing save for the sound of their feet, the beating of their hearts, and the whirlwind of their thoughts.  Being out in the open like this never sat well with Clint, but now in particular it was unbearable.  They were exposed, both to Duquesne if they were being followed and Barnes if they were being watched.  Sam understood his anxieties without him voicing them, and they picked up the pace, racing across the ground as quickly and carefully as possible.  It was hillier here than he expected, copses of trees making little boundaries between the gently rolling fields.  He kept his senses sharp, his mind honed, because now that he was here, it was so easy to go back to huge sprawling expanses of corn in Iowa, green and lush for miles and miles…

And a little farmhouse with a beat-up tractor and an old pickup truck.  Frank Barton yelling at his wife, staggering because he’d had too much to drink.  His mother hiding Clint behind her, shaking and shaking.  Running out the back door with Barney to hide in the old barn, the only sanctuary they’d had.  It was Clint’s sixth birthday.  _“Got somethin’ for ya, little brother.  Brand new slingshot.  Bet you’d be good at bullseyein’ stuff with this…”_

This wasn’t that farmhouse, even though in his mind’s eye it looked so similar with its weather-beaten white paint and rickety old porch.  There was no tractor, no pickup truck.  Just a sedan that looked like it had seen too many weary miles.  There were trees around the property, barren sticks reaching up to a sable sky, and bushes in need of a trimming.  They crouched behind the line of shrubs and listened.  It was still silent, only their faint, quick breaths shooting jets of vapor before their lips.  They waited for a few minutes, but nothing happened.  If Barnes was here, if he’d seen them, it wasn’t obvious.

Clint gathered himself, his boots scraping quietly over the frozen ground as he peered over the top of the hedgerow.  There was a light on in the house in what he assumed was the kitchen.  Additionally, there was no sign of any trouble, no indication of a break-in or unwanted visitors.  He could hear a television quietly playing.  March Madness finals.  A man shouted, “Oh, come on!  That was a foul!”  It sounded like Murray was alive and well and completely unsuspecting.

Lowering himself again, Clint turned to Sam.  Sam seemed to anticipate what he was about to say.  Were this a normal op, Clint wouldn’t necessarily reveal himself at this point.  Allowing Barnes to make a move first would put them at an advantage.  They could wait for him to arrive and spring a trap.  He could tell from the set of Sam’s jaw that that wasn’t going to be an option.  God, Wilson reminded him of Rogers.  There were no corners that could be cut, no unnecessary sacrifices, no compromises, not even for the greater good.  And there was no sense in debating it.  As much as Clint wanted this over, he was already feeling shaky enough, close enough to so much darkness, that he was afraid his judgment was more than a little impaired.  That wasn’t a feeling with which he was terribly familiar, and he was willing to defer.

So with a little nod and a silent hope that this wasn’t a mistake, he stood.  Sam went with him, and together they crossed the yard to the farmhouse.  Clint’s mind was whirling, wondering how they were going to explain to this guy, a civilian for all intents and purposes, that they were two armed Avengers on a manhunt for an ex-Soviet assassin who might be coming to kill him.  _First time for everything._  He hoped Murray had an open mind and didn’t spook easily, because one more glance to his left at Sam convinced him that his friend had no intention of doing anything but telling this guy the truth.  Again, that sort of disclosure, _vulnerability_ , didn’t sit well with him, but honestly, he wasn’t sure there was a better choice.

They quietly stepped up onto the porch, and they both fanned out, doing a quick sweep to ensure they hadn’t missed anything suspicious.  “This is ridiculous,” Murray moaned inside.  A couch creaked.  Through the slightly opened windows in the kitchen, the ballgame was louder.  “Come on, come on!”  Clint looked around the fields once more, but there was nothing save the endless expanse of dead earth and the equally endless spread of night sky.   No sign of Barnes.  He turned back to Sam and nodded.  Sam hesitated only a moment more before drawing a deep breath, tipping his head helplessly that the situation had inexplicably come to this, and knocked on the door.

Immediately the couch creaked again.  Murray standing up probably.  Clint could imagine he was alarmed; it was pretty late for visitors, after all, and this was too out of the way and in the middle of nowhere for passing strangers.  He made an effort to hide his weapons better beneath his coat and in the shadows.  No sense in scaring this poor man senseless if they could avoid it.  _Unless Barnes is after him for another reason._   HYDRA.  HYDRA was everywhere.  In SHIELD.  In the government.  In his _past_.  His paranoia was rearing its ugly head again, so he stifled it.   He had just enough time to do that – get a goddamn grip on himself – before the door opened.

Murray looked like the picture from the personnel file.  He had a round face, thinning gray hair, and open, honest eyes.  He was in his late sixties or early seventies, with a body that was perhaps a tad portly but mostly just big.  At seeing his impromptu callers, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.  “Can I help you guys?”

“Walter Murray?” Sam asked.  He’d slid Steve’s shield to his back before, probably to hide who they were at first.  Captain America, Iron Man, and Thor were dead giveaways, but Hawkeye and Falcon?  They still had some anonymity to protect them.

Murray looked even more apprehensive and confused.  “Yes.”

Normally Clint could manage this sort of thing better, but he felt absolutely lost.  Thankfully, Sam had his wits about him.  “We’re sorry for bothering you like this, but we need to talk to you.  Do you mind if we come in?”

Murray shook his head.  “Not until you tell me who you are and what you want.”  His accent was very clearly from Long Island.

Sam shared a look with Clint, like he was seeking guidance and permission.  Clint had none to give.  “I’m Sam Wilson,” he said after a beat.  He held out his hand.  Murray glanced between it and Sam’s earnest face, clearly not recognizing his name.  Eventually he did take it and shook it slowly.  “This is Clint Barton.  We’re, uh…”  Sam just went with it.  “We’re with the Avengers.”  Murray’s face went completely lax.  His grip slackened, and his eyes widened.  Sam offered a reassuring smile.  “Can we come in?  Please.  It’s really important.”

For hearing such a ridiculous, _incredible_ claim, Murray was surprisingly accepting of it.  Or he was too shocked to do anything more than step aside.  Either way, he let them in.  As Sam passed and Murray spotted Captain America’s shield, so vibrant and clearly iconic, his eyes somehow went even wider.  “The Ah…  The Avengers?  Is that…”

“I know that sounds crazy,” Sam said.  Clint closed the door after them once they were in the foyer.  The floorboards creaked under their feet.  Sam’s smile turned rueful.  “Believe me, I know.  But this is real.  And we need your help.”

This was the point where this encounter would turn either for them or against them.  They’d come forward with the truth, and if this man was HYDRA (or simply a detractor of the Avengers), there was no going back.  Or he had already been hurt or manipulated by the Winter Soldier.  That as well was a possibility, that Barnes had beaten them here and Murray was hiding him for whatever reason.  However, Clint sensed nothing but sincerity from this guy, that looks were _exactly_ what they seemed.  An old man who’d retired from his career to settle down in a quiet life close to his family.  Nothing more and nothing less.  Sam had been right not to simply use Murray as bait.  He had no idea what was coming for him.

The silence that came was awkward, understandably so.  The three men stood stiffly in the foyer.  The basketball game was still playing in the background, cheering and buzzers and a dull hum of noise.  In the front entryway’s dim light, Murray appeared equal parts amazed, horrified, and completely confused.  “Would you, um,” he stammered, “care for something to drink?”

“No, no,” Sam said.  “Thanks.”

The older man shook his head helplessly.  “I don’t know what you think I can do for you,” he said.  His tone suggested simple lack of understanding, not lack of inclination to help in whatever way he could.  “Is this about…”  His eyes flicked to the edge of Steve’s shield over Sam’s shoulder.  “…about what happened to Captain America?  I couldn’t believe it when I saw it.  Is he okay?”

As certain as Clint was that Murray was legitimate, Clint didn’t want to get into it.  He cut to the chase.  “Is there anyone else here?”

Shock passed over Murray’s face.  “What?  N-no.  No, it’s just me.”  Again, Clint didn’t detect any duplicity in his voice.  Murray looked increasingly uncertain about this.  “Why?  Should there be?”

“Have you seen a strange man recently?” he asked instead.  “He’s tall.  Muscular.  Shoulder-length brown hair and blue eyes.  Probably unshaven.”

“Might look homeless,” Sam added.

“He has a metal prosthetic arm with a red star on the shoulder.”

Murray looked even _more_ alarmed.  He shook his head, eyes wide with dismay.  “No, I haven’t seen anyone like that.”  Clint had expected that answer.  Even if Barnes somehow had been here before, it was highly unlikely a civilian, even an ex-cop, would have been able to spot him.  Murray felt the need to explain.  “But I haven’t really been out the last few days.  The cold and the damp bother my joints.”  He eyed the two Avengers worriedly.  “Who is he?  Is this some guy you’re after?”

Again, Clint didn’t want to get into it.  And for this man’s sake, it might be better that he not know the specifics.  “Back in 1991 when you worked for the Nassau County Police Department, did you lead the investigation into the crash that killed Howard and Maria Stark?”

Now the man blanched.  His chubby cheeks again went slack like he couldn’t believe this.  The inkling that _maybe_ it wasn’t a mistake that the Avengers were here had obviously gone full-tilt into cold realization.  “Yeah, I did.”  He focused on Clint.  “Is that what this is about?  Because I never even met Tony Stark.  I was at the scene, followed up with forensics and the coroner’s office, and closed up the file, but I never had anything to do with how the case was handled after that.”

Suddenly Fury’s words in the jet came back to Clint.   _“It seems to me he’s trying to find answers.”_   And suddenly he was asking, even though this was twenty-five years in the past and completely irrelevant to what they were there to do.  “What was your position on their deaths?”

It was a sneaky question hinged on an assumption (probably a safe one) that Murray hadn’t delved too deeply into the massive amount of data dumped onto the internet when the Avengers had taken down SHIELD, that Murray wasn’t aware the Starks’ deaths actually had been murders.  And it paid off.  “Well, officially or unofficially?”

Sam and Clint shared a glance.  “What do you mean?” Sam asked.

Murray seemed hesitant a moment, chewing his lower lip and glancing at the door like he thought someone was coming.  Someone probably was, but Clint doubted it was who he feared.  “I guess it’s alright to talk about it.  It was years ago, and I’m retired.  What the hell can they do to me now, huh?  Take away my gold watch?” he said with half a laugh, obviously looking to them for some reassurance.  Clint remained impassive; he frankly had none to give, even if he was in the mood to give it.  Murray’s little smile fell, and he sighed.  “Honestly, I worked homicide for more than thirty years, and I never saw anything like it.”

“How they died?” Clint prodded.

Murray shook his head.  “Not that so much, though that was a little strange.  But the fact that this was open and shut so fast.  Barely a day after the accident, everything was ruled negligent driving, filed away, and sealed.  Orders came down from the top that the investigation was over.  I mean, Stark was a big name, so I always figured it was for the sake of the family.  Maybe Stark’s lawyer pulled strings to get it shut to protect the Stark name.  But even money and politics usually don’t grease the wheels that fast, if you know what I mean.”

 _They can if HYDRA is involved._   Sam shook his head in confusion, although he’d surely come to the same conclusion.  “Just like that, it was over?”

“They didn’t even want me to file a report,” Murray said.  “Told me it had already been taken care of.”

That did seem wrong.  But if HYDRA had planned a cover-up from the beginning, why even involve local law authorities?  Unless Murray had been in on the conspiracy.  Again, that didn’t seem right.  On their way to Nebraska, Clint had read a few of the police reports and records Fury had obtained.  A passing patrol unit had been the ones to first report the accident.  A mere coincidence might have brought the police in before HYDRA had been fully able to control the situation.  “What about the accident was strange?”

Murray scratched the back of his head, blowing out his upper lip in a sigh.  “Give me a second to think.  It’s been a while.”  It didn’t take him long to dredge up the details.  “Well, for one, Stark’s blood alcohol level was really high.  Rumor mill had it that he liked to knock back a drink or two or three, have a good time and all, but their butler, a Mr. Jarvis, told me that he never did that when he was out with his wife.  But, then, he’d been going through some rough times, I guess, problems with contracts and such.  I don’t remember exactly.”  So Stark drank.  A social drinker or more.  Tony had had problems with alcohol too, as Clint recalled.  And that only lent credence to this looking like an accident.  “It seemed weird that they got so far from where they’d had dinner before the car fell off the road.”

“Fell off?” Sam repeated.

“Took a turn too fast.  I guess the route Stark usually took back to their place was closed, so he ended up on the backroads.”  Again, that could have been HYDRA’s doing.  Everything was suspect.  “He rolled their car down a hill.  Smashed it to pieces.  He and his wife were DOA.”  For some reason, that brought an ugly picture to Clint’s mind.  He’d seen pictures of Howard and Maria Stark once or twice, images of Howard all the way back to his war days and the founding of SHIELD.  He’d seemed like a suave, smart guy.  The thought of him laying broken and crumpled in the remains of his car at the bottom of a forested hill bothered him more than it should have and all because of his friendship with Tony.  “But they’d driven a good fifteen minutes back toward their mansion before he lost control.  With his BAC so high, it was odd they’d made it a mile.  And it was odd that his wife _let_ him drive in the first place.  I think her BAC was normal.  They could have called their butler or one of the chauffeurs, but they didn’t.  Really weird.”

Clint couldn’t argue with that.  Obviously Barnes had staged this accident.  Winding road in the backwoods on a dark winter night in December.  He’d forced Stark there by making it seem like the best route, setting him up to crash.  Maybe he’d drugged Stark at dinner, something with a delayed fuse of sorts that had stayed dormant for ten or fifteen minutes but when activated had quickly spiked his blood alcohol level like he’d been drunk.  That would explain why his wife hadn’t noticed and tried to stop him from driving.  Something HYDRA had concocted.  Hell, Clint knew SHIELD had had chemicals and compounds from R&D that could do something like that.  Mimic arousal, anxiety, euphoria, inebriation, _timed_ no less… “Anything else?” he asked.

Murray thought a second.  Then he nodded, his eyes squinted and distant.  “Yeah,” he said, bobbing his head still.  “Come to think of it, there was one more thing.  Stark was… well, the car flipped something like a dozen times, hitting trees.”  He shook his head, like he was troubled by the memory and then troubled by whom he was sharing that memory with.  “It was completely mangled.  But the EMTs thought…  Well, Stark was really banged up.  But they thought he had signs of petechial hemorrhaging.”

Sam looked at Clint, a question poised on his lips.  Clint knew what that meant.  “He was smothered?”

“Someone mentioned it as a possibility,” Murray said.  “But they found him face down, if I recall.  He might have just asphyxiated and struggled.  They couldn’t say definitively.  There was significant damage to his head and neck.  By the time I tried to follow up on that, everything was shut down and the body was already out of the coroner’s office.”  He sighed, folding his arms across his barrel of a chest.  “Look, there’s always stuff that doesn’t quite make sense when someone dies.  Loose ends.  Questions that don’t get answered.  Yeah, I didn’t feel right about it all, but there was never any sign of foul play.  Don’t take _any_ of this as evidence of something else.  Stark was drunk.  The roads were slick.  He took the turn too fast.”  This man had no idea how _wrong_ he was.  He looked between the two Avengers, seeming somewhat defensive.  “Is that why you’re here?  Did Tony Stark send you?”  He sighed.  “If he wants to speak with me, I’m more than willing to do that, but he’s gotta understand that I don’t have anything more to say than what I’m telling you now.  And that’s not because I don’t want to tell you what I know.  I just don’t know anything more.”

“Alright,” Sam said.  Murray was getting agitated, worried that they wanted something he couldn’t provide.  Sam grasped his shoulder.  “It’s fine, man.  We’re not here for anything you know or don’t know about Howard Stark’s death.  Tony Stark didn’t send us.”

Perplexed and a little exasperated, Murray shook his head.  “Then why–”

There was a thud.  It was soft, extremely so, so quiet that anyone else might not have perceived it at all.  But Clint did.  And it was Clint’s eyes shooting up to the ceiling that Sam noticed, and Sam put an arm across Murray’s chest to silence him.  The ex-cop immediately went still, ashen with sudden horror.  Clint narrowed his eyes, straining his ears, listening.  That sound didn’t come again, but that one gentle thud on the roof was telling.  Damning.

_Barnes._

Fury was right.  _He was here._

Clint moved fast.  All of the doubt and self-hatred vanished, and he was out the door.  He pulled his bow as he did, feet light on the wooden planks of the porch.  He was never going to step silently out here, so it was more important to position himself quickly and pray he could get eyes on Barnes before Barnes fled or got eyes on him.  He leapt across porch, jumping down the few steps and quietly darting into the shadows of the yard.  Could Barnes have gotten down from the roof already?  Was there a shadow up there?  He looked frantically, focusing on parsing anything shaped like a man from everything else.  Was there?  _Was there?_

There was.  A shadow with silver on one side and blue eyes that narrowed in the darkness.  And that shadow moved _faster_.  Clint raised his mic in his coat sleeve to his mouth.  “Wilson, I got him!”  That was all he could spare because with a glint of silver under the faint light of the moon, the shadow was running, leaping across the pinnacle of the roof, sliding down the other side.  _Fuck!_   Clint ran, forcing all the speed he could from himself.  If this guy was enhanced like Rogers, if he could run like Rogers, Clint would never catch him.  “He’s on the move!”  He could imagine Sam trying to tell Murray to hide, to stay away from the altercation.  Trying to get out there to help him because Barnes was jumping down and running like the wind.  “Wilson!”

“I see him,” came Sam’s gasp, and suddenly Falcon’s wings were wide and powerful, and he was arcing through the sky.  He zoomed over the farmhouse.  There was an old barn not far across the lawn, and that silvery shadow was racing toward it.  Beyond that, there was nothing but fields, a wide, huge stretch of them.  If Barnes made it out in the open, they’d be able to track him easier.  But stop him?  Clint wasn’t so sure.  “Barnes!  Stop!” Sam yelled.  “Stop!”

The shadow didn’t stop, racing faster and faster toward the barn.  There was no sense in being quiet at this point.  Clint could barely get the air into his lungs to shout, but he did.  “James Barnes!  We need to talk to you!”  Nothing.  He jumped over a sizeable rut in the yard, snatching an arrow from his quiver.  He nocked it, slowed slightly for stability, and fired.  The shot missed, Barnes ducking like he’d known it was coming.  Clint swore under his breath, taking another arrow like lightning and shooting again.  Barnes ducked and rolled.  Clint raced left, trying to get a better vantage, firing again and again.  All it would take was one hit.  He’d fitted most of these arrows with homing chips.  If he landed one, they’d be able to track Barnes if he ran.  _When_ he ran.  But none of his shots struck, and their quarry was getting away.

Thank God for Sam and Stark’s tech.  Falcon dropped down from the sky right in front of Barnes outside the barn.  “Stop!  Stop, Bucky!”  Bucky didn’t stop.  He darted to the left, drawing a gun from beneath his coat.  A breath later the distinctive crack of gunshots echoed through the quiet night.  Clint jolted in fear, but those shots were met with Steve’s shield, and the clang against the vibranium was familiar and comforting.  “Bucky, listen to me,” Sam gasped, lowering the shield from his face.  He stood right in front of the assassin and blocked his immediate escape.  That (and shock, it seemed) stopped Barnes dead in his tracks.  Clint could hardly get a breath, hardly slow the heavy pounding of his heart, as he came up behind them, arrow nocked and ready.

The three men were still, surprised and uncertain.  The night went back to complete silence, unbreakable it seemed, and time was unmoving.  Clint glanced at Sam, who was utterly frozen in disbelief that they’d caught their target so easily and quickly, before taking stock of Barnes.  The man _was_ dressed like a homeless person, with ratty, stained blue jeans, a few shirts and sweatshirts layered and poking out from beneath a dark brown jacket.  On his back he had a backpack, as disheveled and worn as the rest of him.  His left hand was in a glove, and his right looked wind-chapped and red.  His hair was even longer than the last time Clint had seen him, dropping slightly past his shoulders.  It was tangled and unwashed.  There was dirt on his clothes, dirt on his face, the sort that appeared engrained into skin it had been there so long.  And he had a full beard, unkempt and scraggly.  He looked… ill.  Exhausted.  _Hollow._ His face was slack as he stared at Steve’s shield, stared unabashedly like he couldn’t believe the shining star and vibrant colors.  His eyes were wide.  Then they narrowed, and the gun whipped up.  “No!” Sam said, raising his other hand but keeping the shield firmly between him and Barnes like that had the power to stop this.  His eyes were alive with trepidation, not terror, but he softened his voice.  “No.  No.  Easy.”

Clint came closer, ready to strike.  There was no guarantee Barnes would listen.  Or care.  Or _remember_ , not Sam or the shield or Steve or even who he was.  They had him there only because he’d stopped running, not because they had the power to _keep_ him still.  Clint knew Sam was no slouch when it came to athleticism, and he himself was an expert fighter, but even together they weren’t a match for the Winter Soldier.  Not for the first time since they’d left Avengers Tower, he wondered if they shouldn’t have brought Iron Man or Thor out here with them.  Sure, they were needed back there to help Banner with developing a cure and to take care of a delirious Captain America.  But right here and now, with the Winter Soldier potentially in their grasp, Clint would do anything for more fire power.

 _No.  Go at this with a gentle hand._   Sam beat him to that, trying to seem calm despite the gun on him.  “Barnes, just take it easy.  We’re not here to hurt you.  We’re not going to hurt you, understand me?  That’s not why we’re here.”

Barnes’ eye twitched.  He never shifted his cold, malevolent glare from Sam.  His jaw was clenched, and Clint could see he was like a coiled spring, ready to attack.  This was training mixed with self-preservation mixed with plain, old anger.  But even though his gun didn’t waver, he obviously wasn’t certain.  He could have blown them both away by now, ended them easily, but he hadn’t.  Clint didn’t know why, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.  Sam drew a deep breath, not chancing looking at Clint, not looking _anywhere_ but Barnes’ eyes.  “I’m Sam. Sam Wilson.  We’ve met before, but I don’t think I ever told you.”  Barnes didn’t so much as blink.  The night was tight around them with warning.  Sam lifted his chin slightly, defiant against the deadly tension thick in the air like he was determined not to let this situation fall apart.  “And this is Clint Barton.”  Barnes didn’t turn to him.  Clint knew why.  He was nothing more than a target, a threat to be eliminated.  “We’re Steve’s friends.”

That didn’t garner the reaction they’d hoped.  In fact, it garnered no reaction at all.  Sam got a little bolder, a little more worried.  “Steve Rogers.  Do you remember him?”

Clearly Barnes did remember him.  His eyes flashed, and his grip on the gun he had pointed at Sam tightened.  He took a small yet very menacing step forward.  Clint immediately followed, tightening his grip on the arc of his bow and pulling back on the string a little tighter.  It was instinctive and the wrong thing to do, because Barnes immediately whipped the gun to him.  Sam scrambled to stop this from escalating.  “Whoa, easy!  It’s okay!  It’s okay.  No one’s gonna shoot anyone.  No one’s fighting here.”

Now Barnes was glaring at him.  This was the first time the Winter Soldier had really looked his way, let alone like this, and it was terrifying.  And it was damn hard to stand down, because there was no sign of Barnes, whoever he had been, in that cold, calculating stare.  Bucky might have been the world’s most decent guy, a hero in his own right, but the Winter Soldier was a monster.  So it took some effort for Clint to loosen his grip on the fletching of the arrow and more yet to lower his bow, even just a little.

Sam released a long breath, looking between the two assassins.  “Alright,” he said gently after a tenuous beat.  “Alright, everyone just take it easy.”  Barnes still stared at him malevolently, but Clint thought he saw _something_ more there.  Not quite recognition, but something.  Something not good, not right.  His gooseflesh prickled, and the icy air in his lungs was painful.  Sam seemed to realize that Barnes was bothered because he went on.  “You don’t need to be afraid of us.  We’re Avengers.  We’re Steve’s friends, Bucky.”

Bucky whirled at him again, and his gun was back and his eyes flashed dangerously.  “Don’t call me that,” he hissed.

Sam raised his hand in submission, backing away.  “Okay, okay, that’s cool.  We won’t.”

“I’m not…  I’m not _him._   _I’m not._ ”  So much for the vague hope that Barnes had a grasp on reality.  Or his memories.  Or his _identity._

“It’s fine, okay?” Sam said carefully.  “Nobody says you have to be anyone or anything.”  Not exactly true.  They _needed_ Barnes to be _Barnes,_ the man who loved Steve Rogers like his brother, because the Winter Soldier had carved Rogers up like a goddamn turkey and shot Natasha without a second thought and nearly destroyed the world.  _Shut up,_ Clint snarled at himself.  For once, he could do without his own fucking cynicism.  Thankfully, Sam’s unending optimism was keeping this under control.  Barely.“Okay?  Listen to me.  We’re not here to hurt you.  We’re here for Steve.”

Barnes glanced at the shield, at the star.  At the symbol of Captain America, a symbol that had to mean _something_ to him because he’d pulled it out of the flaming, flooding remains of a helicarrier and kept it safe afterward for weeks.  Sam noticed and lowered his voice even further, but he let every bit of his worry and desperation bleed into his words.  “We’re here because Steve’s sick.”  That wasn’t enough.  “He’s really, _really_ sick.”  Still not enough.  Barnes stared like he didn’t understand, or, worse, it didn’t _mean_ anything to him.  “He’s dying.  He’s only got a day or two.”

Now Barnes blinked, and uncertainty crawled into that metallic glare.  Clint didn’t know if Sam was purposefully using the silence afterward to let what he said sink its claws into Barnes’ heart (whatever remained of it), or if he himself was too burdened by the improbability of this working to go on.  Either way, the quiet was awful, thick and smothering and weighing them all down with anxiety.  Clint typically had boundless patience, but it was impossible to stay still and wait and watch.  Watch the smallest hints of emotions play out on Barnes’ face.  They were muddled, seemingly insignificant, and barely discernible.  Confusion.  Anger.  Grief.  He looked down from Sam’s face, his eyes widening, and lowered the gun almost like he couldn’t focus enough to keep it up.  _Do it.  Drop him._   If there was a chance to do that, it was now, now when Barnes was lost up in himself with his back turned and his guard lowered.  He could sight down his bow and put an arrow anywhere on Barnes’ body.  At this range, he couldn’t miss.  But he couldn’t make himself move.  If he attacked and lost…  They’d forfeit any chance that Barnes would come with them willingly (or worse, they’d lose their own lives).  Who knew who was behind those cold blue eyes right then?  A man or a machine?

His pale lips hardly moved.  “Steve’s sick?”

Sam swallowed, obviously trying not to hope but failing.  “Yeah.  It’s not good.  The other Avengers are trying to save him.  They sent us to find you because there’s something in your blood that might help him.  The serum in _your_ blood might save him.”  Barnes didn’t look up, eyes glazed with mounting pain.  Sam chanced a step closer.  “Steve _needs_ you.  He’s gonna die if you don’t come with us.  I swear on my life that we won’t hurt you, but you need to come with us.”  Barnes still said nothing, face paling under the faint moonlight.  It was like he couldn’t fathom this.  What Sam had told him had completely short-circuited his brain.  The silent moment that crawled by was unbearable.  “Do you understand me?  If you don’t help us, Steve’s going to die.”

That ripped into the assassin, and it ripped violently.  “You’re lying!” Barnes cried, and the gun snapped back up.

Sam retreated again, and Clint nearly pounced.  A quick look from the other man was all that stayed his hand.  This was madness.  It was akin to trying to coax a rabid animal into seeing reason and cooperating.  It was untenable, a disaster waiting to happen, _impossible._   “I’m not lying.  You know I’m Steve’s friend.  You know that.  You saw that.  So you have to trust me now that I would _never_ do anything to hurt him.  And I won’t hurt you.  I promise.  Trust me.”

“You’re a fucking liar!” Barnes raged, and just like that, the impenetrable wall of stoicism and control crumbled.

“Barnes–” Sam started.

 _“I’m not him!_ ” Barnes snapped, eyes murderous.  Unhinged didn’t begin to describe this.  It was obvious he wasn’t just the man he’d been or the Winter Soldier.  He was both, jumbled together and screwed up.  Was there any way to reach through to one without riling the other?

Sam kept trying.  “No, but whoever you are now, you still care about him.  You do.  I saw it.  This means something to you.”  He raised Steve’s shield a bit, and Barnes glanced at it before sharply averting his gaze like the mere sight of it shamed or disturbed him.  Like it was too bright and pure for him to see.  “I know it does.  You kept it safe, protected it.  And you protected Steve.  You’ve always done that.  And he _needs_ you right now.  He’s sick.  He’s dying.  That’s gotta mean something to you.”

Barnes shook his head.  The situation felt like it was slipping away.  “I don’t…  I hurt him.  I’m supposed to hurt him.  Supposed to kill him.  He’s my mission.”

“He was,” Sam soothed.  “But HYDRA’s gone.  You don’t have to do that anymore.  You don’t have to run.  You can save Steve.  And we can help you.”

That seemed to agitate him further.  This was over complicating the matter, appealing to emotions that were obviously too tangled to unknot and sort out.  Clint stepped in.  “We’re not after you for anything you’ve done.  We just need you to come back to New York with us.  We need what’s in your blood.  After that…”

Barnes turned and looked at him.  Finally looked and saw _him,_ rather than another variable in an equation.  And now that hint of recognition exploded into full-fledged _understanding._   It clicked, where he knew Clint.  Where they’d crossed paths once before, when they’d both been in the service of Alexander Pierce and HYDRA.  Down in the Insight Bay, when Rogers had tackled Clint for threatening Natasha before the Winter Soldier had taken him away.  Down in that dark moment, that trauma, _that_ was where they were connected.  Ant that connection brokered nothing but fear.  _And hatred._

Barnes thought he was HYDRA.

_Oh, shit._

He had no warning before the Winter Soldier came at him.  The man swung the gun around and fired once, twice.  Clint managed to get out of the way of the first bullet, but the second hit him in the shoulder.  Pain exploded from the wound, forcing him to drop his bow.  “Clint!” Sam cried.  He threw Steve’s shield hard into Bucky’s back, but he ripped up his metal arm and caught it with a clang.  In a flash of silver, he flung it back at Sam.  Sam couldn’t get off the ground fast enough, and the shield smacked him in the chest.  With all the power of the bionic arm behind the strike, Wilson went down with a hoarse cry.

That gave Clint more than enough time to recover.  He pulled his own gun, aiming for places less vital and pulling the trigger.  One of the bullets clipped Barnes in the hand, and he dropped his gun.  But Barnes was fast, much faster than him and at least as fast as Steve.  He crouched, catching the rest of the bullets on his metal arm.  Clint wasn’t willing to risk shooting Barnes anywhere else, not that it mattered.  Barnes was on him, having pulled a knife from under his coat (there could be a fucking hoard of weapons under there for all Clint knew).  He ducked beneath the swipe, reaching behind to his quiver to draw his own blade.  He caught the slash on his own blade, _just barely_ , and the force of it drove him back.  He grunted, trying to gain some traction on the frozen ground, pushing as hard as he could.  Bucky broke away, bringing up another gun, and Clint kicked at him frantically.  He was either disoriented or worn from being on the run, because Clint’s boot struck flesh and bone, and the gun went flying. 

They were fighting after that.  Fighting hard.  Dancing with knives flashing in the weak light, with hearts pounding and bodies twisting in the air.  Clint could hardly keep up, hardly match the other’s moves.  He could hardly dodge the stabs and slashes and swipes let alone deliver any of his own.  Barnes might have been weakened or compromised, but he was still too strong, too fast.  Clint had trained with Rogers a few times in the past both at SHIELD and more recently at the Tower, and Steve always pulled his punches, made certain his blows didn’t kill.  Barnes was not holding back.  He gracefully traded his knife to his left hand, balled his right hand into a fist despite the gunshot wound, and drove it into Clint’s jaw.  Clint’s teeth went right into his tongue and cheek, and his mouth flooded with blood.  He staggered, dropping to one knee, and Barnes bore down on him.  Unconsciousness bore down on him, too, pressing on the edges of his brain.  The silver edge of the knife descending caught the meager moonlight.  That was all that saved him.  Clint reached up, forcing frozen, pain-riddled limbs to catch the wrist thrusting it down.  He did and shoved back with a cry.  “Stop it!  Stop!  Listen, goddamn it!  I know what you’re feeling!  I know what this is like!” he gasped.  His lips pulled back from his teeth in a frantic snarl as he tried to keep that dangerous tip from jabbing down into his chest.  “You don’t need to do this!  Stop!”  Nothing mattered now.  Barnes was gone, lost in whatever hell he lived, and the knife poked into his heaving throat.  “Barnes!  _Bucky!_ ”

Barnes cried out, and suddenly he was _gone._   Clint gasped and nearly collapsed, looking up just in time to see Falcon snatching the assassin and hauling him into the air.  Sam had his arms around Barnes’ neck, trying to choke him into unconsciousness.  For a moment, it seemed like he might succeed because Barnes flailed wildly, uncoordinated, his metal hand punching violently at Sam.  But Sam’s advantage hardly lasted longer than that.  Barnes got control of himself, reaching behind and grabbing the long line of Sam’s left wing.  Wilson twisted, howling in pain himself, and now Clint couldn’t quite see what was happening.  He scrambled on the ground for his bow, fighting to right himself and regain his composure.  When he glanced into the sky again, it was to the sight of Barnes ripping the wing of the Falcon suit.  Debris fell in a dark blur, a chunk of the wing plus something softer.  Barnes’ backpack.

And the two men came down afterward, tangled up in each other.  Sam yowled again, crushed under Barnes’ weight, his suit failing.  Barnes rolled himself upward, preparing to pummel the figure thrashing beneath him.  Clint finally found his bow and yanked an arrow from his quiver.  “Let him go!” he ordered.  “Let him go now!”

Barnes did.  He jumped clear over the ground, a good dozen feet, like it was nothing, coming at him again.  Clint loosed the arrow and Barnes just batted it away.  Clint gritted his teeth, his heart desperately pumping, as he lithely slipped out of Barnes’ reach and took another arrow from his quiver.  There was no escaping this now.  They had to drop Barnes and drop him fast before he got away or seriously hurt or killed either of them.  _They had to._

But they never had a chance because the barn behind them _exploded_.

Clint instinctively braced himself.  His hearing aids automatically compensated, quieting the deafening blast, but they couldn’t diminish the force of it, and it picked him right up and off his feet and threw him.  He hit the ground hard on his left side, his mouth open in a soundless cry.  It took a seeming eternity before he could get over the pain.  Then he opened his eyes and saw the barn was a flaming wall, fire licking high into the sky.  Sam was not far from him, flat on his back and moaning.  He got himself to his knees, unstrapping the harness of the mangled remains of his flight suit and coughing violently.  He crawled to Steve’s shield where it lay upside down on the frozen earth.  And Barnes was struggling to his feet a little further away.  The fire behind him glowed orange and yellow and gold around his black form, his arm glinting like liquid silver, blood dripping from him.  Their elixir splattering uselessly onto the earth.

Despite the storm of questions pounding through Clint’s brain in that moment, questions about who and what and _why,_ one thought thundered above the others as he watched Barnes bleed.  _We need him alive!_

Over the hungry crackling of the fire, there was the distinctive sound of an RPG launcher loading.  “Barnes!” Clint shouted in panic.  It was too late.  The missile hit the ground next to the Winter Soldier.  Dirt was sent high, fire blasting over them.  Clint struggled against it.  He was well beyond terror at this point.  If Bucky died, Steve died.  And if Steve died, Natasha would lose _everything._

He couldn’t let that happen.

He was on his feet again before he thought to get up.  Before he could run for where Barnes had been, though, the ground exploded right in front of him.  Again the hearing aids decreased the volume of the detonation, intending on sparing him, but all it did was create a more disorienting experience when his senses delivered conflicting information to his brain.  Clint whirled, protecting himself from the spray of fire and dirt.  A chunk of something hit the left side of his head, and suddenly he was back in that alley where Omega Red had killed him.  His ears were ringing, his eyes bleeding tears, and he sank into to the flashback unwittingly.  Gray skin.  Metal around his arms and squeezing.  Red eyes glaring.  He was choking, crushed, _dying._

It was only Sam screaming at him, grabbing him and steadying him, that kept him from collapsing.  “Clint!  Clint, Jesus!”  His voice was distant but anchoring.  “Clint!  You with me?”  He blinked and blinked until blurriness was gone and he could see Sam holding him and shaking him.  Wilson was terrified, a hand to the side of his head where Clint was bleeding.  Clint reached his fingers there and felt blood.  His hearing aid was gone.  “You alright?  Clint!”

He focused.  Behind them there were trucks coming across the field, two of them, armored Humvees tearing over the uneven terrain.  And despite how dark it was, how impossible it seemed, he _knew_ who was coming for them.

“Shit!” Sam cried.  “He’s gone!”

Clint ripped around again and saw that there was _no one_ where Barnes had been.  For a fleeting moment he feared the other man had been killed, hit by one of the RPGs.  He refused to accept that, scanning the darkness of the fields around them.  With the barn burning, it was easier to see now.  _There._   A shadow running.

Another RPG smacked into the ground to their left.  Sam jumped onto him, wrenching him around to protect him with Steve’s shield.  While the explosion faded, Clint shoved Sam away.  There was no time.  And there was absolutely no chance they could give Barnes chase.  Not like this.  “Go!” he demanded.  “Stay with him!”

Sam shook his head.  His suit was damaged, so flying after Barnes wasn’t an option.  If they wanted any hope they could keep up, he had to go now.  “What about your ear?  Can you hear?”  Clint didn’t answer.   He could, but damn if it wasn’t a handicap.  Thankfully he’d been struck on his better side where the hearing loss wasn’t so severe.  It didn’t feel like much of miracle as he gathered up his gear.  “Can you handle–”

Clint pushed him away harder, his heart thundering and his eyes flashing with a warning.  With determination.  “I’ll keep ’em busy,” he declared firmly.  There was not a doubt in his mind that this was what he needed to do.  This was his fault.  _All of it._   Sam was staring at him with wide eyes like he was crazy.  Maybe he was.  There was no time to wonder about it now.  “Go, goddamn it!  Get out of here!”  The Humvees were nearly upon them, and Barnes was nearly gone, almost melding completely into the shadows beyond the blaze.  There was no time!  _“Go!”_

Sam gave him a final look, a hard, frightening, desperate _look_ , but he understood.  Thank God, he did.  He grabbed Steve’s shield and snatched up the guns from his wrecked suit and ran like the wind, legs pumping powerfully, flying as best he could without his wings.  Clint watched him go long enough to make sure he was gone, safe among the shadows.

Then he turned back to the Humvees.  They screeched to a halt out there, and men jumped out, the same sort of black ops bastards who’d attacked the UN building in Geneva.  Clint held his bow tighter, pulling an arrow from his quiver.  “You want me,” he whispered.  He narrowed his gaze, ignoring the burning pain from his wounded shoulder and his bruised side, ignoring his throbbing head and ringing ear, and pulled back on his bowstring.  He fell down deep inside him, into that quiet place.  It wasn’t so hard to do.  Not now.  “You come and get me.”

He loosed the first shoot.  The arrow struck the side of one of the guys running across the field.  A tap to the controls on his bow had it exploding, darts fanning out in a deadly blast.  A few cries burst into the night.  Clint was already on the move, sprinting to the right to avoid detection and drawing another arrow.  That one he fired, too, sending it into crowd of men.  This one exploded on impact, shaking the Humvees but not enough to damage them.  Guns crackled in the night as the soldiers got into formation.  Bullets rent the ground, and they came like a swarm of spiders.  Thought fled.  Fear.  Doubt.  _Guilt._   Clint left it all behind.  He moved, running, dodging poorly aimed gunfire, returning with shot after shot.  Arrows that detonated. Arrows that split into multiple shots.  Arrows that unleashed concussive force.  He fired and fired, thinning their ranks, a lone archer against a horde of enemies.  And like he always did, he met his mark.

After a few minutes, minutes he prayed Sam had used to put distance between them, he reached back into his quiver and found a single arrow remained.  There was fire out in the fields, fire behind him, fire where Murray’s farmhouse was ablaze.  Flames high in the sky.  He was in the center of them, trapped.  He didn’t know how many more soldiers were out there; it could be a couple or a couple hundred.  He was outnumbered no matter what, low on ammunition, lower still on options.  He was tired and in pain.

However, all of that didn’t matter.  Duquesne was here.  He emerged from one of the Humvees, smooth and confident, dressed in a black combat uniform and a long leather coat.  The fires were kicking up a hot breeze despite the cold night, and it sent his blond hair askew where it had been slicked back.  He stalked closer, calm.  Slow.  Clint stood taller, fighting to catch his breath without seeming winded, struggling to seem like he wasn’t hurt.  Struggling to seem a worthy opponent.  _“They have to fear you, kid.  It’s fear that births legends.”_

Duquesne smiled.  It was that same smile Clint remembered, cool and knowing.  “Fancy meeting you here,” he said.

Clint lowered his bow, taking a few breaths of the crisp air to help clear his senses.  Ground himself.  Subtly he turned so that his good ear was closer.  “Could say the same,” he replied, his tone even.

Duquesne’s smile grew thinner.  Less amused.  “Out on a job?”

“You could say that.”

The other man, older and worn, scarred even, grunted a rueful chuckle.  “I’ve never cared much for my family’s legacy,” he commented.  “Never cared much for all the… bullshit.  The racism, the narrow-mindedness, the emphasis on _making things right_.  On putting everything as it should be.  Never liked that.”  He folded his arms over his chest.  “Pompous fuckers, the lot of HYDRA.  They bust me out of jail for one purpose, and I’m out there, trying to build them an army, train soldiers for them.  It’s a waste.  They’re short-sighted fools, so caught up in their own rhetoric that they don’t even realize hitting hard and fast is the way to go if you want vengeance.  All this plotting and stupid bullshit.  They’ve been trying for _decades_ to be commanders of a sinking ship, running around like goddamn chickens with their heads cut off.  Pretty funny.  And then Captain America comes out of the ice, and suddenly they’re all chomping at the bit to bring him down, practically drooling over it.  Prove who’s the best leader, the mightiest.  The most cunning.  The strongest.  And you know what?”  He smiled, revealing teeth that were overly white.  “Something else gets the job done.  It doesn’t matter what.  All that plotting and posturing, all that bullshit, for _nothing_.  He dies, and we had nothing to do with it.  The irony.”

Clint’s temper frayed almost completely.  “Are we doing this?”

Duquesne’s smile turned feral.  Clint knew that look as well.  It had plagued his dreams for twenty years.  “Yeah, we are.  That’s why you stayed behind, isn’t it?”  Clint swallowed down his pounding heart.  He didn’t know what it was.  Rumlow.  This bastard.  He supposed he attracted sadistic bastards.  “Honestly, I don’t give a fuck what your buddy is after.  I’m after you.”

“I figured,” Clint responded.  Blood dripped from his right hand to the ground and squelched in his palm when he squeezed his fist.  He slid his bow onto his back.  He had essentially no weapons.  His guns were spent, his quiver empty save for that one shot.  All he had was his combat knife.  Only that against an expert swordsman.  He’d faced poor odds before, but this was bad.  “Let’s go.”

“Pretty impatient.  So eager to die?”  Duquesne smirked.  “Don’t worry, Barton.  I meant what I said back there.  You’ll _all_ fall, one way or another.  I’ll take you down.  Rogers’ll die from whatever’s wrong with him.  He’s what holds your pathetic team together, so once he’s finished, everything’ll come apart.  The Asgardian will go back home, home to the hell that’s brewing there.  Stark’ll destroy himself, pathetic little rich boy that he is.  The Hulk…  Nothing more than a mindless beast.  And Black Widow.”  He smiled like he somehow _knew_ about Clint’s prior relationship with Natasha, how much she meant to him.  “An actual widow.  She didn’t even have to kill her mate this time.  Funny how that works.  Guess she and HYDRA have something in common.  They both got lucky enough for something else to get the job done after so many epic failures.”  That grin turned cruel.  “And her runt.  Fatherless before it’s even born.”

Clint couldn’t contain his vitriol.  “Fuck you.  Come on!”

Duquesne did.  He was a blur, a whisper of leather and cloth, and from the scabbard on his hip his sword sang.  Clint saw it coming but only just, and he ducked out of the way.  His aching left leg almost failed him, but he managed to stay on his feet, managed to slash at Duquesne as he followed through with his thrust.  The soldiers backed away, forming something of an impromptu ring around the two of them.  Clint dodged another attack.  It was coming back to him surprisingly quickly, almost as though there hadn’t been twenty years between this moment and the last time he’d seen Duquesne fight.  The style.  The power.  The speed.  Without a weapon of his own, there was no chance he could win this.

But maybe that wasn’t the point.  A lucky slash caught him across the leg, and Clint cried out, dropping to his good knee.  It was the first hit Duquesne had scored, and it was a bad one.  There’d be another coming, so he scrambled away with everything he could muster.  The deadly edge of the silver blade sliced through the air where he had been.  He put distance between him and his opponent, leaving the area of engagement, and Duquesne honored the craft enough (for the moment at least) to let him.  Clint hobbled away, sparing a glance to see how seriously his thigh was bleeding.  Seriously.  “This isn’t what I’d call a duel,” he gasped, trying to ignore the burning pain.

“I taught you to use what you had,” Duquesne said.  His sharp eyes glanced to the combat knife Clint still clutched in his hand.  “So use it.”

“You taught me to be a murderer,” Clint snarled back.

Duquesne smiled smugly.  “Don’t flatter yourself.  You were more than willing to learn.”  Again, his smile twisted into a cruel smirk.  “But never willing to follow through until it was too late.  Does this team of superheroes of yours know the truth about you?  Or are you too much of a coward to admit it?  The same coward you were when you let me–”

 _“Shut up!”_ Clint roared, and he charged.  They fought for what seemed like forever, though it was only a few minutes.  A few minutes of struggling to keep up, to keep going.  Clint was out of practice, out of his league, even, the years he’d spent away from this blunting his skills.  Duquesne was lightning, flashes and jabs in the night, and Clint could barely meet his thrusts let alone deliver counters or feints or thrusts of his own.  As the eternity wore on, more of Duquesne’s attacks began to land.  A slash across Clint’s chest.  Another down his right arm.  Cutting along his lower back.  Digging into his side.  Duquesne was using the sword as means to strike from afar, to keep him back and out of range for his knife to hit, and every attempt was costing him.

Eventually blood loss and exhaustion was starting to render him sloppy.  His feet dragged through their dance, and the world was starting to spin, a blur of fire and shadow.  He was staggering back more and more, losing ground massive steps at a time, until he felt the heat of the fire from the barn behind him.  Duquesne was a demon in the blaze, as far from a mindless machine like Barnes as possible.  His body was moving smoothly, languidly with well-practiced ease and expertise, and as Clint faded, the Swordsman grew amazingly stronger, amazingly more powerful.  He thrived in this, in his prey floundering before him.  The arrogant gleam of his eyes, that smile, that _fucking_ smile…  The same smile he’d had so many times in the past right before he’d killed the countless victims Clint had seen him kill…  Rage burst up inside him, pushing strength into his limbs, and he jumped from the frozen ground.  The knife slashed in a powerful arc and _hit._   Right into Duquesne’s left flank.  It passed through leather and cloth and went deep into skin.  And it felt ridiculously satisfying, if only for a moment.

A moment, because Duquesne cried out far more in anger than pain and smacked him across the face with the hilt of his blade.  Clint felt his nose break, felt blood gush into his mouth and down his throat, and he was ripping around.  He hit the ground hard, scrambling away as much as he could.  Duquesne yanked the knife out of his own side and tossed it.  Clint glanced over his shoulder, trying to will his battered, bleeding body to move faster, but he couldn’t.  He cried out as the sword traced his back, taunting him, cutting the straps of his quiver.  A hand grabbed him by his now exposed coat, hauling him upward viciously before throwing him to the ground again, even closer to the fire.  Clint struck with a soundless scream.  He couldn’t move, the pain was so bad.  In its warm embraces he lingered, eager to escape the cold and the anger and the goddamn helplessness.

But Duquesne was coming at him again.  It was obvious he knew this was over, that he’d _won_.  “Pretty fucking pathetic,” he commented in that weird accent of his.  Clint knew what it was now.  German and French and a touch of Midwest, all of lies.  Everything a lie.  “But you always were.”

He decided he wasn’t going to die like this, lying on the ground like nothing and no one.  He got himself up on his hands with no small amount of effort and tried to stand.  He felt blood all over him, felt his muscles failing and his heart’s strained beating in his chest and his lungs seizing.  But he wasn’t going to die like this.

Then his fingers curled around something that was cold, metallic, and he decided he wasn’t going to die at all.

“This is where I end you,” Duquesne gloated.  “Been waiting _twenty fucking years_ for this.  Can’t say it was as satisfying as I wanted.  I could draw it out, I suppose.”  _Keep talking._   “Carve you up.  Make you bleed more.  Make you beg.  Make it more than this.”  _Keep going._   “But what’s the point?  In the end, all I want is you dead.  And I don’t think you’d beg.”  _No._   Not that he could get the air in his lungs to beg.  Every breath, every beat of his heart, was spent now on reaching, on grabbing, on pulling and then waiting.  “And I don’t think there’s anything you could ever do to repay me for what you took.  Twenty _years_.  A lifetime rotting in a box.”  A hand grabbed his back again and pulled.  “Maybe I’ll pack what’s left of you in a box, huh?”  Yanked.  Lifted.  Clint went limp.  “Pack it up and send it to your precious Black Widow with my regards.”  Turned him over to see his face when the killing blow struck.  “How about that, kid?”

The moment Duquesne turned him, loomed over him, drove his sword into his stomach, Clint yanked the harness of Sam’s broken flight suit further forward and up.  It took nothing to wrap the straps around Duquesne’s thigh and clip it to his belt.  And the blade stabbing into his body didn’t stop him – _couldn’t stop him_ – from reaching for the controls on the jet pack.  “How about you take a hike,” he gasped, flipping on the switch.

Duquesne positively wailed as the jets flared to life.  The suit’s wings expanded in a broken shudder before flinging the Swordsman back.  It was off balance with its damaged wing (and the fact it was hooked to the man’s midriff rather than his back), and it ripped him into the ground before jetting him across the frozen field toward the Humvees.  With a burst of energy, Clint reached up and grabbed the blade embedded in him and yanked it loose.  He scrambled away, rolling onto his knees and dropping the sword.  Gasping wildly for breath his body couldn’t seem to get, he squinted, watching as Sam’s suit whipped Duquesne around violently.  Everything was off-center, the jets unable to get enough consistent thrust to lift him any more than a couple of feet off the ground.  He was screaming, and his men were struggling to help, trying to get close enough.  Clint gritted his teeth, heaving for breath, as he reached for his fallen bow and quiver.  For that last arrow.  He was surprisingly calm, surprisingly steady, as he fitted the shaft along his bow and pulled back on the string.  And he loosed it.

Through all the chaos, the arrow hit the back of the Falcon suit.  It melted through the engine casing.  The thruster exploded.  Duquesne was now ablaze, screaming, _screaming_ , and men were coming with fire suppression equipment from the Humvees.  Clint didn’t wait to watch.  He grabbed the sword and ran through the fire and into the night.

* * *

“How much farther, Barney?”

“We’re almost there, Clint.  Hang on.  Almost there.”

“’m tired.”

“I know, buddy.  I know.”

And he was tired.  And drifting.  Delirious with pain, with blood loss.  Some part of him knew he was alone, running (stumbling) across a cold, barren field, that Barney wasn’t really there.  Some part of him also knew he needed to get away, find Sam.  Find Barnes.  But these were fleeting thoughts and they didn’t stick.  Every impact of his boots on the uneven ground jolted up his aching bones and jostled his brain against his skull, and nothing was making sense.  He just knew he had to keep going.  He didn’t know how far he’d come, how long he’d been running.  It was so dark, so cold, and he was so tired.  So tired.  “You can make it.”

“Too far, Barney.”

A laugh in his ear.  Maybe that was just his pounding heart and the heat of his blood rolling down his face.  He couldn’t hear out of that ear so well.  But somehow Barney’s voice was clear.  “Maybe you shoulda thought of that when you decided to tag along.”

“Dad’s gonna be pissed.”

“Dad’s always pissed.”

That was true.  Drunk bastard.  He wasn’t a kind man normally, short on his temper and demanding, but when booze was involved?  Everything got so much worse.  And he took his aggressions and frustrations out on their mother, their mother who was the only good thing they had.  That made him pick up the pace, because if they could get back before their father discovered they’d snuck out, maybe he wouldn’t get mad.  And if he didn’t get mad, maybe he wouldn’t hit mom.

They needed to hurry.

His foot snagged in a furrow in the ground, one he probably would have seen if he’d been in his right mind.  He went down hard, elbows jabbing up into his midriff, driving the precious air from his lungs.  His wounds thrummed with agony so strong it nearly drove him into unconsciousness.  _Have to keep going.  Have to get up.  Get up._   He swallowed down the bitterness of blood, made himself suck in a desperate breath, made his frozen fingers curl into the earth and push himself upright.  “Thanks, Barney,” he murmured.  Barney was helping him up, he thought.  He had to be, because he couldn’t do this himself.

“Sure, Clint.”  A knowing smile.  He could almost see it.  “Gotta take care of you, right?  You’re my kid brother.  Always gonna be at your side.”

“You’re full of it.”

A laugh, so familiar.  He could almost hear it.  “What if I am?”

“We’re in this together.”

An arm across his shoulders.  _He could feel it._   “You bet we are.  Now let’s get moving before they find out we’re gone.”

He was running across the field again.  A field.  The same one as before or a different one.  He couldn’t tell.  He thought he’d crossed a road a while back.  Thought he’d ventured through a farm or two.  A small copse of trees.  He didn’t know.  The world was dim, the night thick and heavy and almost as heavy as the pull of oblivion trying to get a hold of his head.  _No.  Have to keep going.  Have to find…  Find Barnes.  Barney._   He laughed.  He was bleeding to death, freezing to death, and he was laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nuthin’.  Just thinkin’.  And we’re walking in circles out here.”  He was.  He well and truly was.

“No, we’re not.  You worry too much.  Too serious.  Lighten up.”

“I don’t worry.”

“Sure, you do.  I know where we’re going.  We’ll be home in no time.”  His boots crunched over something that felt a little different.  Softer earth.  A little hill.  He groaned, trying to summon some energy to climb it, but his limbs were leaden and soaked through with hurt.  “Come on, Clint.  Couple more steps.  We got this.  And you know what?  When we get home, your bed’s gonna be waiting for you.  Nice and warm.”

“Want your bed.”

More laughing.  “Not on your life.”

“Yours is nicer.  Mine’s all lumpy.”

The softer, muddier ground gave way under his boots.  But he didn’t fall.  “Alright, fine.  You can sleep with me.”  _Sleep.  Not yet.  Keep going._   His body practically crumpled.  These last steps were the worst, the hardest, every fiber in his body chilled and spent.  Bones and blood and lacerated skin.  Brain and heart.  Still, he powered on, forcing himself to walk, to climb, to breathe and fight.  And then…

A white house down the little hill.  Trees around it, dark sentinels in the night.  Their bedroom in the back of the second floor, red curtains in the window.  Wait, was that right?  It didn’t matter.  This was home.  He wasn’t lost.  He was home.  _Home._

“See. I told you we were close.”

Clint gasped half a sob and staggered down the other side of the hill.  More than once he almost fell, almost gave into his body’s demands that he quit.  But he didn’t, and somehow he made it without toppling.  And somehow he climbed over a white fence.  Somehow he staggered across the yard, dead grass crunching under his boots.  Somehow he made it to the porch and climbed up the couple of steps.

And somehow he knocked on the door.  It opened almost immediately, almost welcoming.  There was a woman there, with striking brown eyes and thick, long brown hair.  Beautiful, he thought.  He opened his mouth, wanting to say something because he didn’t know her, this woman who was living in his house – _is this my house?_ – but consciousness was well and truly fading now.  The relief from having come this far – reaching _salvation_ – was far too potent, and his knees bent and his world tipped and his eyes began to slip shut against his will until all he could see was the light from the house haloed around her.  All he could hear was her voice.  “Oh, my God.  Hey, are you okay?  Hey!  _Hey!_   Oh, God!”  She was on her hands and knees beside him, touching him.  A trembling but warm hand to his brow.  “Cooper!  _Cooper!_ ”

“Mom, what is it?”

“Is he okay, Mommy?”

“Get Lila back inside and go and find the first aid kit!  And blankets!  Go!  Hurry!”  The hand stayed there, strong and so, so comforting.  Clint’s vision dimmed until there was nothing but her face over his, her fingers on his body, her breath on his cheek.  “Oh, God, there’s so much blood.  What happened to you?  Look at me.  What’s your name?  Can you look at me?  Can you tell me your name?  I’ll get you help.  I’ll–”

“No,” he whispered.  He couldn’t remember why.  _Avengers.  HYDRA.  Winter Soldier.  Not safe._ “No.”

“But–”

_“Please.”_

Her eyes filled with confusion and dismay.  But she conceded.  “Alright.  But hold on.  _Hold on._ ”

He couldn’t anymore.  The darkness swooped in at long last, and the night consumed everything, everything except her.  Even after everything, after he fell hard and fast, she stayed.  She was with him, and somehow he felt like he really had made it home.


	10. Chapter 10

Steve was hardly breathing.  The awful rasp, the weak suck of air between his ripped lips and bloodied teeth, the equally weak push of it out that rattled his ribs and was tangled with a whimpering moan _every single time_ …  It was just torturous to hear.  Tony could hardly stand it.  He kept watching Steve’s chest rise and fall, eyes unable to deviate from the struggle, mind unable to get past that _this_ was happening, heart unable to do anything other than hope that this time he exhaled wouldn’t be the last time.  Angrily he wondered how much longer this would have to go on before he started wishing this breath would be the last.  And angrily he wondered how in the world _he_ was the only one left to take care of the man he’d doomed. 

But this situation was beyond fucked up, because that was exactly what had happened.  Thor was gone.  Sam and Clint were gone.  Natasha couldn’t come inside, even though she was pacing the length of the quarantine cell just beyond the glass like she was the one in the cage.  It was too dangerous for Bruce (and too dangerous for basically anyone else given how quickly Steve went from limp and weak and barely breathing to a delirious maniac hell-bent on battling the demons from his fever dreams).  For hours now it had been him and only him, Iron Man tucked safely in the alcove next to the clean room.  Bruce had come in once or twice to collect blood samples and check on Steve’s condition.  Tony had donned the suit just in case.  The unspoken tension had framed every moment Bruce had been there, the thousand-pound elephant in the room (or the rage-monster lurking underneath Bruce’s mild-mannered disposition, more literally).  Steve had remained thankfully placid while they’d examined him.

Still, that had been about the only good thing.  Bruce hadn’t been at all pleased with what they’d found.  A few days left?  Less than that, it seemed.  Steve’s fever was a near constant 107 degrees at this point, high enough to be concerned about it causing lasting brain damage.  He was hardly breathing because _he could hardly breathe_.  His lungs were full of fluid, blood mostly, and it was putting serious strain on his already damaged heart.  As if it could get worse, an ultrasound revealed that the internal bleeding was significantly more serious, that the damage to his organs was increasing.  The super soldier serum was literally laying his body to waste, and there wasn’t a damn thing any of them could do to make that better, let alone stop it.

And Tony just couldn’t take that.  He couldn’t stand sitting there, helplessly watching Steve withering away.  His mind raced and his skin itched and he had so much useless energy.  It was brutal.  “Easy, Steve,” he hushed when a particularly rough shiver of pain wracked Steve’s form.  Steve’s muscles were tightening, his body battling against itself.  “Easy.  Don’t get worked up.”  Tony laid his hands on Steve’s chest, trying to provide some solace (whatever it was worth, which seemed to be very little).  It was almost automatic now, something that had been difficult in the days and months and years before this moment.  Him offering up comfort to someone else.  Maybe it was the fact that Steve was hardly conscious.  That made it safe, because Steve would never remember.  Steve wouldn’t remember his desperate pleas, his shaking hands, his shuddering heart.  Natasha was right there, though, watching every moment, so that couldn’t be the complete explanation.  Maybe it was the fact that this was all he could do.  Bruce and Betty were deep into their work at this point, calmly desperate (was that a thing?) and laboring to derive an antiserum using the Hulk’s blood.  They were testing it on Steve’s blood at this point, at least the different versions they had developed so far, so it sounded like they were making progress.  Slow progress, but progress, and while Tony would have vastly preferred to be in there aiding them, he knew he was needed more here.  He liked to think himself capable of figuring out anything, but this was well beyond his areas of expertise.  Furthermore, if Steve’s situation degraded rapidly or suddenly turned dire, he was the only one capable of rendering emergency care.  Considering how random and unpredictable the fits and seizures and coughing episodes were, Steve really couldn’t be left alone.  So there was that, too.

But the guilt.  The guilt was really the biggest reason.  This was _all_ he could do.  He couldn’t erase the past.  He couldn’t change what he’d done.  He couldn’t _take Steve’s place_ , which he desperately wanted to do (or knew he should want to do, but seeing what this was like…  It wasn’t so easy to make himself be that selfless).  Staying at Steve’s side was the only thing he had.  So no matter how uncomfortable it made him, he was going to do it.  He was going to make sure Steve knew he wasn’t alone.  He was pretty certain that he was among the least well equipped the world over to be whispering prayers at a deathbed ( _it’s not a goddamn deathbed!_ ), but this was his fucking fault.  He was going to watch Steve suffer, watch him fade away, because he _deserved_ to.  He deserved to see every second of this, to hear it, to feel it and know it and remember it forever.  He was going to bear witness to this like a punishment, like this was the best penance he could manage.  He was going to observe one of the strongest men the world had ever known burning away to ash and memories.  His father’s legacy, his _best_ creation, destroyed like this, by his own fucking ego.  He and Steve might not have always gotten along or seen eye-to-eye, but they were friends, and he’d gladly do anything, give anything, to undo that one _stupid_ moment where he’d ignored his orders and done what he’d wanted.  As it was, he could only murmur comfort and try to keep Steve docile and in as little pain as possible (which was pretty laughable) and blame himself for every second of this torture.

And he wasn’t the only one.  Natasha hadn’t said much to him the last few hours, but she didn’t need to.  Her silence was damning.  When he’d felt brave enough to glance at her, he found she constantly seemed to have the same set of expressions on her face.  Pained emptiness as she watched the man she loved slowly die.  Frustration and horror that she couldn’t do anything, couldn’t be in there with him, couldn’t even touch him, and that was tied to anger and revulsion that Tony of all of them was the one who could and was _._   A cutting glare, icy and brutal and wordlessly demanding _how dare you_ , that was directed at him every time he tried to offer up that comfort, every time he implored Steve to hang on or wiped the blood from his mouth or rubbed some warmth into his icy hands.  Tony couldn’t decide which of all those expressions was the worst.  They were all simultaneously terrible and terrifying.

It was the empty, haunted glaze of her eyes that greeted him as he chanced a look this time.  She was watching Steve struggle to breathe, too.  That was rapidly becoming one of the more pressing concerns.  Steve’s lungs were failing him.  Bruce’s last examination had revealed this was going to be the thing that killed him first, as if that wasn’t obvious from the way Steve was breathing now.  He’d mentioned the possibility of getting Steve on a ventilator, but his tone and guarded words suggested he wasn’t sure how much good it would do.  Tony hadn’t had the courage to argue.  He barely had the courage to keep going through this.  “Just breathe easy.  Come on.  You can do it.”

Steve coughed, squirming on the bed.  This was becoming something of a vicious cycle.  Steve would lose control of his breathing, whatever meager control of it he had, and that would lead to panic, which would inevitably lead to choking and coughing, and that could trigger even worse miseries.  They’d get through that by the skin of their teeth only to be back at it again in short order, sometimes before they’d had even a moment to recover.  Tony closed his eyes wearily, bracing himself, before doing what he could to prevent the vicious cycle from even starting.  “Easy, Cap.  Slow it down.  In and out.  Easy.”

Steve whimpered an indiscernible word, tossing his head on the pillow.  Tony was really starting to wonder if any of what he was saying and doing was making a damn bit of difference.  Steve was too delirious, too sick with the fever and everything else, to even notice.  He ignored his frustration, took up Steve’s hand, and pressed it to his own chest.  “Feel this, huh?  Come on.  Just like this.  In.”  He took an exaggerated breath, a very deep one, and held it, watching Steve’s flushed face.  His eyes were squeezed shut, and he was teetering on the edge of another attack.  “And then out.”  He blew the air, holding Steve’s quivering palm to his chest so he could feel it.  “You try it.  Come on.  Don’t let this get worse.  In and out.”

It was crazy and not at all like him and probably useless.  Natasha’s eyes felt like the weight of the world slamming onto his shoulders, but he kept going.  He’d bear that, too, if he had to.  “In and out, Steve.  In and out.”  He stubbornly repeated the mantra like some kind of ridiculous cheerleader, soft spoken as it was.  All the while, he adamantly held on to Steve, helping him establish a peaceful rhythm of inhaling and exhaling.  It hadn’t worked all the times before when he’d tried this, but this time it did.  Slowly but surely, Steve’s breathing evened out.  The agonized grimace relinquished its grip on his face, and the tension of an impending attack eased its way out of his muscles.  Tony couldn’t help but close his eyes again, this time in relief.  _Thank God._   He heard a sigh that wasn’t his or Steve’s and cracked open his eyes to see Natasha moan around a sob, ceasing her pacing to lean wearily against the quarantine cell.

“Buck?” Steve whispered on a breath, drawing Tony’s attention.  The inventor released his hand with a wince, setting it back over his chest quickly.  This made him so uncomfortable.  “Buck… izzat you?”

“It’s Tony, Steve.  You’re in Stark Tower.”

That didn’t register, didn’t make sense or connect reality with consciousness in Steve’s fever-addled brain.  “Bucky…” he whispered.  He licked his lips, lips that were dried to the point of cracking.  Around another miserable wheeze, he said, “Shouldn’t be here.”  Tony wondered for a moment if Steve thought Barnes was really there, if he’d been told that they needed to find Barnes to save his life.  If he had any hold on reality.  But he didn’t.  This was a memory or something else.  He could only imagine the number of times Barnes had helped Steve through an asthma attack or some bout with pneumonia or worse during their youths.  This sort of scene had probably played out before, only it had been Barnes helping him through it.  Despite everything the Winter Soldier had done to Steve, Tony felt that Barnes was somehow more welcomed and better suited.  “Wastin’ your evenin’…   Should be out…  Take her out dancin’, Buck.”  _Goddamn it._ Tony gasped something that was too much of a sob to be anything else.  _Shouldn’t be here is right._   “…don’t like it when you… when you…”

“Yeah,” Tony managed.  He pulled a wet cloth from the bowl of cool water he’d recently refilled and used it to wipe Steve’s face.  “Yeah.  Well, I’m not too fond of it, either.”

Steve seemed to drift, settling down even further beneath Tony’s steady hands.  Tony spent a few more quiet moments busying himself by resettling Steve’s blankets and cooling his face and chest.  His skin was so hot it was almost unbearable to touch it.  He set his hands tentatively to Steve’s chest despite the scalding contact.  He could practically feel the crackling there with every breath.  A scene that had played out in the past.  A moment where Steve had nearly died like this before, burning alive, struggling for breath, delirious and suffering.  How the hell had it come to this?  _A fucking accident._   A twist of fate.  His mistakes.  “Jesus, Steve,” he whispered, closing his eyes against the stinging in them.

“He’s sleeping again.”  Natasha’s soft declaration pulled him from the pit in which he’d been drowning.  He mustered the courage to look at her, _really look_ , and found her pale and her eyes wet.  To say he understood her even now, even after everything they’d been through together and the team reforming, would be nothing short of a lie.  She frightened him, pure and simple (though he’d never admit it).  She’d been so many different things to him.  A flirty employee.  A liar and a traitor.  A teammate.  And now she was _this_ , whatever this was.  Never quite a friend.  Never quite someone he trusted.  But here and a part of his life.  Someone that made him continually uncomfortable.  And an accuser.

She wasn’t accusing him of anything at the moment, though.  “It’s time for the meds,” she reminded.  Her lips, without their normal flawless lipstick and bitten raw, quirked into a weak smile.  “Probably good that he passed out.”

Tony sighed, gathering himself.  “Right.”  He stood, wincing at the ache spreading all over his exhausted body, and went to the cart full of medications on the other side of the room.  He’d suggested they try drugs to suppress Steve’s immune system a few hours ago.  Bruce had been pessimistic, of course, claiming it was highly unlikely they would have any effect with Steve’s serum-enhanced metabolism.  But Tony had gone ahead with it anyway after Bruce had left.  Anything was worth trying, even if its chances of success were small.  What harm could it do?  As he’d been gathering the vials and a few syringes the first time, Natasha had watched.  And when he’d caught her gaze, she’d nodded.  It had been the first thing in a long time upon which they’d agreed.

He took the things he’d needed, including some extremely potent fever-reducing agents (that hadn’t done a damn thing, but hope apparently sprang eternal when you were this desperate), and went back to Steve’s side.  Then it was a parade of injections, one after another.  Steve’s veins were in deplorable shape after all of this, and it was proving difficult to find an area of his skin that wasn’t marred and tender with internal bruising and bleeding.  The last thing Tony wanted was to cause him any more discomfort (or, worse, wake him with his mental faculties as scattered as they were).  Thankfully, he stayed asleep.

Tossing the spent needles in the biohazard bin, he checked the IV lines delivering blood and saline and found everything was still in good shape.  Then he peeled off the latex gloves he’d been wearing for forever.  His skin was sweaty and reeked of powder, and he flexed his fingers like they were stiff.  God, he was tired.  And hurting all over.  Still, seeing Natasha so bent and burdened, wincing herself as she resettled her pregnant form in one of the chairs outside the quarantine cell, he couldn’t care about his own sad state.  They’d all been worrying about her to some extent since Steve had collapsed yesterday.  Bruce had implored her to sleep a couple of times during his visits.  She’d refused.  Seeing her now like this made Tony’s concern abruptly clear, present, and strong enough for him to actually say something.  “You should rest.”  His suggestion was not welcomed.  Clearly.  Icy eyes screamed a warning louder than words ever could.  Tony looked away sharply.  “Just… I’m just trying to help.”

That was even less welcomed, which was hard to imagine.  “You’re just trying to help,” she repeated, her voice harsh.  All the sudden, this tenuous peace between them completely fell apart, disintegrating like it had never existed.  He flinched, expecting the worst.  He hadn’t ever fathomed Natasha completely losing her cool, and that had happened after London, perhaps fueled by hormones, but it had happened nonetheless.  She’d practically screamed at him the night Steve had been hurt, and that had been over nothing.  Here and now, with her husband dying in this cell with him…  He expected far worse.

But he realized he was wrong.  And right.  Wrong because this was Black Widow, and maybe he didn’t know her all that well, but there were two things about her of which he was absolutely certain: she could control her emotions, and she loved Steve Rogers.  When she came at him now, it was with nothing but cold, calm venom.  And he was right to expect the worst.  This was far, _far_ more painful than her yelling, than her raging, than _anything._   “You can’t help now, Stark.  You can’t do a fucking thing to make this better.  Do you understand that?  It’s too late.”  Tony closed his eyes.  He could only nod, his heart pounding and his body awash in a cold sweat.  “Even if he…  Even he lives through this, there’s nothing you can ever do to make this right.  Not for him.  And not for me.”  Her hands swept over the babies.  “And definitely not for them.”

That was like a knife in his chest.  Like the shrapnel had finally defeated the arc reactor and was slicing and cutting into his heart.  Only the arc reactor was gone, and the shards of metal that had constantly threatened his life were gone with it, so this was only his guilt.  And his desperation.  “Natasha, please, _please,_ I–”

“Don’t you dare tell me you’re sorry,” she hissed.  Even like this, even this disheveled and worn down and pregnant, she was beautiful.  And dangerous, maybe even more so than before.  This wasn’t just Black Widow, assassin and spy and Avenger. This was Captain America’s wife.  This was a woman protecting herself, her family, her children from something she perceived as a threat.  That hurt worse than anything he’d ever experienced, and that was certainly saying something.  “Don’t, Stark.  Don’t tell me it’s okay.  Don’t tell me he’ll be alright.  Don’t make promises you can’t keep and lie to me to make yourself feel better.”  Her voice shook as she went on, the only sign that her emotions were getting the better of her.  “I can see it all in your face.  You’re not here for him or for me.  You’re here to _make it right_.  To spare yourself.  To find redemption or absolution or–”

“Natasha, that’s not why–”

“Don’t tell me that you’d do it over if you could!  That you’d listen next time instead of doing whatever the hell you want!  You never change, Stark!  You were blocked out of the Initiative because you weren’t a team player.  Well, you still aren’t.”  Her voice wavered even though her gaze narrowed viciously.  “And you never think.  For being so goddamn smart, you never stop and think.  You never hesitate, never consider what your ego is going to cost someone else.”  She gasped something that sounded like a sob.  She was struggling now.  “And you know what’s even worse?  You _resent_ him.”

Tony’s blood went cold.  That came out of nowhere, and if the rage flashing in Natasha’s eyes was any indication, she wasn’t backing down.  She was completely behind her accusation.  “No, I…  I don’t.  Don’t say that.  I – I don’t…”  He couldn’t think of any way to defend himself.  And the worst part was he wasn’t sure _it wasn’t true_.  Perfect Steve Rogers.  The world’s first and best superhero.  His father’s greatest creation.  The one good thing his father had given the world.  The one thing his father had _loved_.  Was that what it was, why he couldn’t just follow Steve’s orders?  Why he couldn’t just _let_ Captain America be the leader?  Something subconscious?  Or not even that blameless…  _Jealousy._   Was that the truth?  _Resentment._   And how did she know?  _Did_ she know?  Had she somehow seen the reality behind all of his arrogance and sarcasm, the insecurities that he himself wasn’t willing to see?  There wasn’t anything he could say.  “I don’t…  Jesus.  I don’t resent him.”

“Bullshit, Stark.  You can’t even admit it to yourself how much it kills you to follow rather than lead.  And how much it kills you to follow him.”  She gave a choked laugh, and now her control was really waning.  There were tears filling her furious eyes.  “Well, now you get your wish.  You don’t have to follow him anymore.”

Tony couldn’t hold in a sob.  “Natasha, that’s not true.  I fucked up.  I know I did.  But I didn’t mean it.  I didn’t mean it!”

“Don’t give me that!” she snapped.  “Just don’t!  The twins could be born with their father _dead_.”

 “That won’t happen.”  His voice was weak.  Uncertain.  And she did nothing but glare at him.  Hate him.  She was taking everything from him.  _Everything._   “It won’t.  We’ll find a way to save him.  Barnes or Banner or…”

“No.  Don’t think _for a minute_ that I am going to let you use Steve’s children to ease your conscience.”

He thought he was going to throw up.  “I’m not saying that.  I’d never…”  _God.  Oh, God._ “You don’t know how much I–”

“No, I don’t.”  And again her eyes were chillingly cold, her arms tight around the swell of the twins.  “And I don’t care.”  She’d gathered herself, just like that.  The tears were gone.  The anger was back under control.  The pain vanished from her posture.  She was strong and firm.  And she was right.  “Face it, Tony.  _You can’t fix this._ ”

There was silence after that.  Part of Tony felt like he should fight, argue, stand up for himself because she had no right to talk to him this way.  He had given them a place to live, allowed his property and possessions to be used for this team of theirs, had funded anything and everything they wanted and needed.  And this had been an accident.  That was true.  _It was true._   Steve getting hurt could have happened – _any_ of them getting hurt could happen – no matter what he’d done.  She had no right to treat him like this, lash out at him and accuse him of doing this on purpose, of wanting to hurt or sacrifice the twins just to make himself feel better…  Who the hell did she think she was?

 _Rogers’ wife._   Maybe that shouldn’t have carried so much weight in his mind, but it did, trumping all sense of logic and self-preservation.  It trumped what he wanted to say, that love and family had no place in the lives they lived, that they should have known better, that she needed to move on.  It trumped everything.  So he didn’t listen to those thoughts in his head that screamed he should fight back.  He just wiped at his eyes and turned away.

And because he was turned away, watching Steve’s sleeping form blur with tears and weariness, he couldn’t see if she was crying.  It sounded like it for a moment, a few breaths that resembled moaning, weeping pleas for strength.  Tony knew he should go to her, comfort her even though he so desperately needed comfort himself, because it was the right thing to do.  Let her hurt him, vent her misery, and hold her in the aftermath.  Let her tear him down so that she could be free of her pain.  That was what Barton would have done.  What Rogers would have done.  But he couldn’t manage that.  He wasn’t giving, wasn’t good.  He was selfish.  _Resentful._

Thankfully, it didn’t matter.  The door to the quarantine ward opened, and Maria Hill entered.  She was dressed in jeans and a plain gray sweater, not quite as impeccable as she normally was.  She slowed in concern at seeing the two of them so pointedly turned from each other and struggling with their emotions.  “Everything alright?”

Tony couldn’t help his vitriol.  It was a common response, turning into an asshole when things bothered him.  “Does it look to you like everything is alright?”

Hill didn’t rise to the bait.  Natasha spoke before she could.  “Any word?” she asked, sniffling and wiping her eyes and doing a very poor job of hiding how upset she’d been.

Maria frowned and sadly shook her head.  “It’s only been six hours.  Give it time.”

“Time,” Tony grumbled.  He wiped his eyes, too.  “Right.” 

Again, Hill completely ignored him.  She turned to Romanoff.  “Natasha, can we speak for a moment?”  She glanced at Tony.  “In private maybe.”

Natasha shook her head, gathering herself breath by breath.  “Doesn’t matter,” she said.  “Just tell me.”

Maria hesitated a moment more, still glancing at Tony like he was some sort of threat.  That should have pissed him off further, but he couldn’t manage the energy.  Instead he went and gathered up the latest round of discarded towels and sheets.  Busywork for idle hands and an idle mind.  All he was fucking good for.  “I considered not bothering you with it, but… it’s not really my call.”  Maria sighed, handing Natasha a tablet computer.  “You’re probably going to think this is crazy, but the President wants to speak with you.”

That did sound crazy.  Absolutely, positively, bat-shit _insane._   “President Ellis?” Natasha repeated with a wince.

Maria nodded, an odd sympathetic gleam to her eyes.  “I haven’t been terribly forthcoming with information despite the number of times his press secretary and aides have called.  They want to know about Cap’s condition, but I didn’t think it was right to tell them.”  Natasha glanced over the pads before looking up quizzically.  Maria shrugged.  “You’re his wife.  It’s your decision.”

Natasha looked completely befuddled by that, like she hadn’t realized until now that it _was_ her decision.  Everything about this was her decision.  Her face went lax, like the implications of it were only now occurring to her.  “They want to know about Steve’s condition?”

“The President would like to speak with you personally and offer his condolences and any help the government can give,” Hill said.  She looked even more uncomfortable.  “He’d also like to discuss protection for you and the twins.”

That confused expression only intensified.  “How does he…”

It seemed impossible that Black Widow wasn’t entirely on top of everything.  A spy of her caliber would never have been caught unawares by a situation like this months ago.  Tony supposed she had a compelling reason not to be on her game, and maybe it would have been better had she never known _exactly_ how widespread information about her private life had become.  But she already had that StarkPad in her hands, and Maria was swiping her fingers across it to bring up images.  Tony had seen them, of course.  _Everyone in the world_ had seen them.  Captain America collapsing, but not just that.  The team flying him home.  Black Widow on the roof of Stark Tower.  Black Widow rushing to the Avengers as they brought her unconscious husband in from battle.  There was one series of pictures in particular that was circulating the internet like viral plague.  Natasha was reaching for Steve’s face.  The wedding band on her finger was clearly visible because it had picked up the light from the camera flash.  So was her stomach, round and undeniable.  And so was the terror in her eyes.  These images had been tweeted and posted and reblogged and spread endlessly, commented upon and constantly discussed.  Nobody had any answers, and the questions had long since changed from “is Captain America alright” to speculation about the pregnancy.  How far along Natasha was.  If the baby was a boy or a girl.  What that might mean with the serum involved.  What it _meant_ that Captain America had not just married but procreated with someone like Black Widow.  Had she been pregnant before they’d gotten married (and what sort of message that sent considering Captain America’s not-at-all-wanted position as a national symbol of purity, family integrity, and political correctness).  It was disgusting, how much people were freaking out about this.  Steve was dying, and whether or not he condoned premarital sex was a _thing._

All of that was water under the bridge at this point.  If Natasha had wanted to keep her pregnancy hidden, it was too late.  Tony had been watching this situation unfold off and on since Steve had collapsed.  He’d gotten Pepper and Happy on the task of trying to control the fallout, but there was only so much they could do.  As usual, when something started trending in social media, it was hard to stop it.  Frankly, if it was up to him, he would have told Ellis where to stuff his olive branch.  It was entirely likely that the President’s care and concern was legitimate.  At worst, maybe, he was trying to save face, trying to get control of the situation.  But at illogical, far-fetched, utterly paranoid but completely justified _worst_ , Ellis had some ulterior motive.  Like getting access to Captain America’s children, especially when Captain America himself was dying.  If Steve didn’t survive this, the twins were the only source of the serum left in the world.  Perhaps Ellis wanted to help to get the US government involved.  Tony was exhausted and loopy enough to picture it, to imagine federal agents in the Tower, draining Steve of his precious blood as he laid dying, forcing Natasha into…  He shook the awful thought away.

Natasha was smart and cynical, and he could tell from the tight look she had that the same (perhaps irrational) thoughts were plaguing her.  “Alright,” she said.  “I’ll talk to him.”  That didn’t sit well with Tony.  Now came equally irrational images of Natasha _allowing_ the government to take Steve, of her angry enough to let strangers try to fix this just because she _didn’t trust him…_   “Now?”

Maria nodded.  “I’ll help you get cleaned up and brief you.”

Natasha looked uncertain, though Tony didn’t know if it was because she was worried about confronting Ellis or leaving Steve.  She didn’t meet his gaze as she stepped up to the glass, clearly trying to convince herself that Steve was sleeping and would be okay without her for a bit.  Then she followed Maria out of the room.

Tony stood still in the silence for a while, lost and drifting.  Crushed and angry and bitter.  Alone with the fruits of his failings.  He wanted to cry again.  It was JARVIS who anchored him.  At times like this he wondered if he’d actually programmed JARVIS to understand and anticipate him (and everyone else, it seemed) or if his intuition was something the AI had taught himself.  Regardless, he was grateful.  “Might I suggest some sleep, sir.  Captain Rogers can do without you for a bit.”

Hopefully that was true because before he even knew what he was doing, he was shuffling over to the spare cot.  He laid down on the thin pillow, took up a blanket that was thankfully clean, and nodded off.

* * *

He wasn’t sure how long he slept.  Not long.  He was jerked out of a dreamless place by JARVIS’ emphatic voice.  “Sir.  _Sir._ ”

“What?  What?”

“Howard?”

Tony’s eyes snapped open at that soft, uncertain call.  He fell out of the bed, rolling and landing on his side.  He scrambled to his knees, trying to get his bearings.  When he did, he saw Steve standing at the window of the cell.  _Standing there_.  Barely standing, but standing.  Looking at him with confusion in his fever-bright eyes.  “Howard?  What’re you doin’ here?”

 _Oh, God._   Tony was barely able to swallow down his pounding heart.  He stood slowly, equal parts afraid of where Steve was in his head and what this meant.  “What’s goin’ on?  I feel…”  Steve swallowed, wiping his hand across his face.  It came away a bit bloody, and he looked confused.  “What’s wrong?”

Tony could hardly breathe.  For some reason, _this_ hadn’t occurred to him, that in all of the delirium and nightmares and incognizance Steve would confuse him with his father.  He knew he looked like his dad had at this age.  That had been well before he’d been born, when Howard Stark had been a young, suave, powerful businessman.  So it made sense, given how screwed up Steve was, that this could happen.  But he hadn’t anticipated it.  Hadn’t seen it coming.  And it fucking _hurt._   “Steve.”  He cleared the awfulness from his throat.  “Steve, it’s Tony.  It’s 2015.  Howard’s…  Howard’s dead.  He’s been dead for twenty-five years.”

Steve seemed even more confused, staring at him like he couldn’t reconcile the image of two people, couldn’t understand the past in the context of the present.  “No.  Howard’s…”  He turned and looked out of the glass of the window, out into the perpetual shadows of the room beyond.  There was no one there.  Natasha and Maria hadn’t come back yet.  Steve raised a quivering hand and pressed it to the pane, shaking his head, slowly at first and then faster and faster.  It looked like a weak wind could topple him.  “Peggy…  Peggy was here.  Wasn’t she?  I saw her.  Know I did.  Saw her.”

“No, Steve.  Peggy wasn’t here.”  Tony swallowed through a dry throat.  “She’s gone.”

Steve didn’t seem to hear him.  “Gotta get out of here.  Gotta find her.”

“No.  Bad idea.”  Steve looked frustrated and banged on the glass.  If he’d put all of his strength behind it, he could have shattered it.  As it was, the pane rattled and that sent Tony into a near panic.  “No, Cap.  _No._   You need to stay in here.”

JARVIS was quick to say, “Sir, shall I summon–”

 _Summon who?_   There wasn’t anyone.  “No, it’s fine,” Tony assured, keeping his voice calm.  “It’s fine.  Right, Steve?  You’re coming back to bed and lying down and resting.  Alright?  You need to stay in here.”

“Why?” Steve gasped, banging on the glass again a little harder.

Tony thought he was going to have a heart attack.  This fucking disease was frying Rogers’ brain.  How in the world was he supposed to reason with a man this delirious?  A man who could likely snap his neck like a twig and bust his way out of here and go _anywhere_ before anyone could stop him.  But he had to.  There was no one else right now.  They couldn’t risk bringing in Natasha or Bruce, and Maria or Ross were just as likely to succeed in calming Steve down as Tony was, probably even less so.  His mind raced.  He just needed to get through the haze in Steve’s head.  “Because Natasha’s pregnant, remember?  She’s pregnant with the twins.  Your babies.  You’re sick, and you can make them sick.”

“Peggy was here,” Steve insisted, more agitated.

“No, _Natasha_ was here,” Tony said firmly.  He took a tentative step toward Rogers.  All of the instances Steve had lashed out before had been completely involuntary, but there was a first time for everything.  Tony had no idea what Steve was seeing when he looked at him.  “Natasha’s been here.  She’s been right outside.  She’s hardly left your side.  Not Peggy.  Peggy’s…  She’s not here.”

Steve’s face crinkled.  “Natasha?”

“Your wife, Steve.  Look at your hand.”  Steve did where it was pressed to the window.  At the platinum wedding band there.  He pulled his hand away, scrutinizing it like he couldn’t make sense of what it was or what it meant.  He flexed his fingers once or twice, brow furrowed, lips parted in an alarmed frown.  Tony didn’t know what to expect.  Raving lunacy.  Overwhelming grief, like he was waking up in the future all over again.  Horror.

What he got, though, was blessedly _sane._   “Oh, God, Tony,” Steve moaned, and he was sinking into the pane, his limbs failing him.  Tony moved with alacrity that was surprising given how exhausted he was, catching Steve as he fell.  When his hands smeared through Steve’s tears, he cursed inwardly; this was the first time he’d touched the other man without gloves or his suit.  He knew Bruce had said there was no chance of contagion, but that didn’t completely assuage his fears.  But it was too late now.  Steve was clinging onto him, coughing and sobbing into his shoulder.  “Oh, God.  Tony.  Tony, it hurts.”

“I know,” Tony soothed.  It was awkward and painful, but he swept his hands in a comforting rub down Steve’s back.  Through the thin material of the hospital pajamas, his fever was raging.  “I know.  It’s alright.”

“… so cold.”

He was.  He was shivering violently.  “Let’s go back to bed, huh?  Come on.  You weigh a ton.”

Together they shuffled to the bed.  With a groan, Tony laid Steve down, but Steve’s hand was tight in his scrubs, not letting him pull away.  His teeth were chattering, and his eyes were bright and desperate.  “Where – where’s Clint?  I need to talk to him.”

Tony gently pried Steve’s clutching fingers open.  It shouldn’t have been possible to do that, let alone so easy.  “He’s…”  There was no way to explain and no sense in trying.  “He left trying to find something to save you.  Don’t worry about him.  He’s fine.  Take it easy.”

“N-need to talk to him.  Need to te-tell him somethin’.”

“Well,” Tony said, pulling the blankets around the other man, “you’re gonna have to settle for me.”

Steve blinked a few times like he couldn’t process that.  Then his fingers went right back to twining into Tony’s clothes and pulling tight.  And, with an awful, dawning realization, Tony immediately regretted what he’d said.  Of course this would be what Steve wanted, what he needed to say.  _Of course._ “You gotta promise me…  Promise me you’ll take care of her.  Take care of Nat.  Take care of – of the twins.”

Horror sent the room spinning around Tony.  All he wanted to do was wrench away and run and hide.  Or get angry.  Angry was easier, faster.  “Shut the hell up, Rogers.  Don’t do that.”

Steve choked miserably, turning onto his side to ride out the wave of agony.  When he recovered, he was even more insistent.  Fuck him and his stubbornness.  “You – you gotta, Tony.  ’m not stupid.  ’m dyin’.  Nothin’ – nothin’ can stop it.”

Tony wanted to scream.  “We’re trying to stop it, you dumbass.  And we will.”

“N-no.  Gotta know someone’s gonna ta-take care of her.  Gotta know while I can _think,_ Tony.  Gotta know.”

This wasn’t happening.  Tony couldn’t make this promise.  Steve _did_ need Clint.  Or Sam.  Or someone capable of swearing to him what he needed to hear.  _Anyone_ aside from him.  And it wasn’t that he wasn’t willing to.  There was just no way – no goddamn way _ever_ – that he’d be good enough to take care of Captain America’s widow and his children.  That was a duty and an honor he’d never deserve.  He couldn’t do this!  “Steve, you can’t ask me.  You can’t ask me to do that.  Not me.”

Steve closed his eyes, sagging back into the mattress, his frantic energy spent.  Tony didn’t know if it was his body simply giving out or if it was because he was satisfied Tony would follow through.  “Trust you, Tony,” he whispered.  He licked his bloodied lips, fighting for every breath again.  “Trust you to do it.”  His mouth curled in just a bit of a shit-eating grin.  “’sides… told me I’d hafta settle for you.  So I’m settlin’.”

Tony gasped a chuckle.  “Christ, Steve.”

“You… you’re a good man.  Good man, like your dad was.  Saw him here.  Saw you…  I’m not mad.”  Steve struggled for enough air to keep going.  “Not your fault, Tony.  Not your fault.”

“Don’t you fucking do that!  Don’t… _please…_   Please don’t forgive me!”

“Not forgivin’ you.  Nothin’ to forgive.”  Tony could begin to accept any of this.  And Steve was going on, weakening word by word.  “It’s… it’s okay.  Isn’t it?”

 _No.  No, no, no.  No!_ “Yeah.”

“Promise me.  Please.  Please…”  Steve didn’t say anything more.  He didn’t even stay awake long enough to hear the answer.  The last of his strength vanished, and he lost whatever hold on lucidity he’d inexplicably had.  He passed out, shivering so badly, fighting and fighting to breathe again.  And Tony was left shaking and panting, too.  He couldn’t take this.  Not this.  Not on top of everything else.  He already felt sick and small with grief and guilt, and this was a burden he didn’t think his throbbing heart and shattered soul could bear.

But he was speaking before he thought not to.  “I promise.”  There was no one there, and Steve was gone again, so no one could hear him sniffle back a sob.  No one could hear him beg.  “But it’s not coming to that.  You hear me?  I won’t let it come to that.  Hang on, Steve.  Alright?  You have to hang on.  You have to keep fighting.  _You have to._   Please.  Please don’t do this to us.”  He choked on a sob, settling the blankets over and around the quaking body before him.  “Please don’t give up.”

There was no answer.  Eventually Tony sat back, holding Steve’s hand in his own and rubbing whatever warmth he could into it.  He sat and watched him shiver and whispered his comfort and thought and thought.  He didn’t know what was going to happen.  He didn’t have answers this time.  But he was damn certain of one thing.

Natasha was wrong.  There was a way to fix this, and he would find it.

* * *

On her way back to the quarantine floor, Natasha supposed stranger things had happened.  Aliens invading from outer space.  HYDRA surviving for seventy years inside the very organization meant to destroy evil like it.  Giant vampire monsters with tentacles made for sucking the life out of people.  While more mundane and definitely less dangerous, having a frank conversation with the President of the United States was up there on an ever-expanding list of weird events.  And had it not been for the fact that that discussion was about her husband’s imminent demise and the fate of her unborn children, maybe she would have been more struck by just how improbable it was for a Russian spy and a former agent of the KGB to be conversing with an American President.  As it was, all she wanted was the conversation to end without her losing her patience or betraying just how bad things were.

Ellis had been kind, offering gentle promises of support without pressuring her.  He’d gone on about what a hero Steve was, how strong and brave he’d been to protect them as he had during the attack in Geneva, how self-sacrificing and valorous he’d been so many times in the past.  He’d offered the sincerest gratitude on behalf of a solemn nation, like Steve was dead already.  He’d yet again pledged his support to the Avengers, suggesting that Steve could be transported to a secure government facility to treat his condition (his condition – Natasha hadn’t been forthcoming with what that condition was, vaguely explaining that he had taken ill with no description of what had caused it or how serious it was).  There Steve could receive the best care and complete privacy.  Even if she trusted the government (which she most certainly didn’t), she highly doubted the doctors or medical experts the President had could offer anything more than what Bruce Banner and Betty Ross could.  So she’d politely declined.  During the course of their talk, Ellis gathered from her solemn demeanor that the situation was quite serious, and he had become more emphatic about helping.  She’d sadly told him there was nothing he could do.  He’d made some comment about keeping the faith, about miracles finding ways to happen, about praying for the best.  He would appeal to the American people at that afternoon’s upcoming press conference to do just that, pray and hope and keep Captain Rogers in their thoughts.  And he would implore them to respect the Avengers’ privacy during these difficult times, asking the masses to refrain from prying and spreading rumors and gossip.  She’d thanked him for that, for his time and concern.  He’d reminded her that the American government was standing by her and her family, should she need anything.  She’d thanked him again and tried to seem grateful, tried _not to think_ about the number of times Steve had been hurt and nearly killed on the behalf of the flag he carried.

Steve wouldn’t have wanted her to be so dark, bitter, and cynical.  He would have reminded her that wasn’t his government he fought for; it was the ideals which his country and its people held dear.  Freedom.  Justice.  Honesty and integrity.  Right now, she couldn’t care less about any of that.

She reached the quarantine room, feeling angrier and more unsettled than before at having had to face political nonsense at a time like this.  That was unfair and harsh, but again, she couldn’t help herself, and it felt _good_ , like dark vindication, to think this way.  To silently disparage Ellis and everyone else for being so blind and selfish.  Did they even know what Steve (and every other soldier, for that matter) sacrificed for the good of their country and the world?  This was the first time she’d thought of herself like this.  A soldier’s wife.  It only made her angrier.  Did these people even _deserve_ their freedom?  Would they remember this, what she and Steve and all of the Avengers risked, the next time they got on their high horses to spew their doubt and dissension and high talk of oversight and regulation?

Would there even _be_ a next time?

She wiped at her eyes.  She wasn’t going to fall apart.  Not now.  Not ever.  She wasn’t going to fall apart!  Thankfully, the sight that greeted her inside the quarantine ward distracted her before she could.

Tony was outside the cell, talking quietly with Bruce and Betty.  Inside, Steve was thankfully still sleeping.  She glanced at the monitors displaying his vitals, hating what she saw, before turning a sharp look upon the others.  “What’s going on?” she demanded.

She could tell immediately from that now familiar expression of reluctance splayed across Bruce’s features that whatever was happening wasn’t something good.  “Tony has an idea.”

As much as she _hated_ Stark right now, she couldn’t help the jolt of excitement going through her.  She darted her eyes between the two men, suspicious but acutely interested.  “What sort of idea?”  Again, Bruce hesitated, sharing a worried glance with Stark and then with Betty before fidgeting a little.  She was getting pretty tired of this behavior of his.  Of him trying to _protect_ her.  This was her husband, her children.  Her life.  “What idea?”

Tony was the one who answered.  Apparently he’d regained his confidence while she’d been busy because all signs of the man who’d been nothing more than a defeated husk were gone, replaced with Tony as he had been.  For some reason, that was comforting.  Tony as he had been was an arrogant, egotistical ass, but he was also incredibly smart, resourceful, and not afraid to get dirty to get something done.  “Easy.  It’s not going to cure him.  But it might buy us some time.  A lot of time, if it works.”

“At the rate Steve’s getting worse, he won’t make it another day, let alone two,” Bruce explained.  “The damage is becoming severe.  We’re going to have to intubate him soon if his lung function continues to degrade as it has been, and that’s a temporary solution at best.  As it stands, even if we can develop an antiserum with the Hulk’s blood, he won’t survive long enough to test it.”

Natasha’s heart faltered in pain.  She’d feared this, _known_ it over the last few hours, but she hadn’t let herself believe it until now.  “How close are you?”

Betty winced.  She was exhausted, a bit pale, but her eyes were compassionate and apologetic.  “Our latest attempts have shown some progress when we tested them on Captain Rogers’ blood samples.  Even with that, though, and even if we’re on the right track, I think we need at least another two days.”

“Steve will be dead by then,” Tony quietly declared, “which is why we need to try this.”

“What’s this?” Natasha asked sternly.  “What are you talking about?  And what about Barnes?”

Bruce sighed, folding his arms across his chest and dropping his tone further as if Steve could somehow hear him.  “If we had blood from Barnes, it would take us a matter of hours to synthesize the antiserum with the procedures we’ve developed.  The problem is the Hulk’s blood is poisoned with Gamma radiation.  Filtering that out while trying to collect immune cells is tedious and difficult.”

“With a pure sample of the serum, we could bypass that entire step,” Betty said.

“But Barnes isn’t here,” Tony reminded, like that wasn’t miserably obvious, “and we can’t bank all of our hopes on Barton and Wilson getting him here in time.  We knew that was a longshot.  So I say we try my idea.  Like I said, it can buy us time.”

Natasha shook her head.  If Tony had come up with a way to prolong Steve’s life or slow down the progression of the virus, why in the world were they wasting time debating it?  “Then whatever it is, let’s do it.”

Bruce grimaced.  “Natasha, it’s…”  He looked like he was caught between wanting to scream and wanting to throw up.  Nauseous and angry and frustrated.  “If I had a dollar for every time I’ve tried to find a better way to deliver news like this…”  He shook his head, trying to smile.  “I’d be as rich as you.”

“Doubt it,” Tony grumbled.

Bruce sighed.  “Tony thinks we should put Steve into cryostasis.”

Suddenly their reticence made sense.  And Natasha’s heart came to a shuddering halt in her chest again.  Her lips moved without her thinking to speak.  “What?  Cryostasis?”

Tony was quick to explain.  “The virus is using his own immune system to kill him.  It’s using the serum to kill him.  So if we can bring his metabolism to a halt, slow down his biological functions…”  He huffed sharply, like there was no good way to explain this.  There was no good way because this was _a terrible idea._   “We know what happens to him in ice.  Back when he took down HYDRA’s plane, the serum put his body into hibernation, for all intents and purposes.  If we can get him into cryostasis, it’ll stop the virus dead in its tracks.  We’ll be disarming the disease.  It’ll be like hitting the pause button.  Then we can keep him there like that until we’re sure we have a viable cure in the Hulk’s blood or until the others come back with Barnes.  Or until we come up with something else.”

This was a lot to take in.  Natasha felt her face go lax of its own accord, her mind racing but without traction.  _Cryostasis._   The thought made her sick.  It was so repulsive that her immediate inclination was to cast it aside.  However, Tony was smart, and maybe he was clinging to this for selfish reasons, but his plan made sense.  Freeze Steve’s body.  Bring his metabolism to the bare minimum to sustain his life.  _Preserve_ him.  Keep him that way until they could find a cure.  Thaw him out, administer the antiserum, and everything would be fine.

God, that was alluring.  And it seemed so simple.  _So simple._

Bruce somehow read her mind.  “Before you agree to this, you need to understand something.  We can put him down into cryostasis.  I think.  We don’t really know how the serum reacted to it the first time.”

Tony interrupted him.  “Does Steve ever talk about it?” he asked.  “Does he remember it?  Was he conscious when it happened?”

The questions took her aback.  She had to think about it, and even then she floundered, dazed and stricken.  “He doesn’t talk about it much, but he remembers the crash.  And he remembers freezing.”  Maybe it was a moot point right now and not something with which she should be concerned, but a part of her felt like she was betraying Steve.  Betraying his trust.  “At least he remembers some of it.  He has nightmares about it.”  Her stomach knotted up inside her as the unspoken implications began to sink in.  “He doesn’t like the cold.”

That was blatantly obvious and a massive understatement.  Bruce appeared even unhappier.  “Well, I think we can do this.  It’s a risk, because we don’t know what it took to overcome the serum last time and force it down into… hibernation.”  He gave Tony a withering look.  “And there are more unknowns with the serum as out of control as it is.  Still, I think it could work.  In theory.”  He shook his head.  “But, _as I said_ , you need to understand.  We don’t have any way to sedate him for this procedure.”  The unspoken implications were _right there_ now, awful and undeniable.  “Drugs don’t work on him.  He’s delirious and partially conscious at best, but…  There’s a good chance he could be awake while we tried this.”

 _Oh, God._   She couldn’t process that.  She simply couldn’t.  The silence that descended was heavy, a shroud of suffocating pain and shock that made it difficult to even breathe.  “You’re telling me that you want to freeze him alive, and he’ll be able to feel it.”

Bruce and Tony looked at each other like they were trying to find strength and courage in one another to keep going.  “Yeah,” Tony finally admitted.  “At least until he loses consciousness.”

“No,” Natasha said firmly.  “No.  That’s like…”  She could barely think it, let alone say it, let alone _consider_ that they – that _she_ – would be the one doing it.  “That’s like torturing him!”

“We’ll flood him with every sedative and painkiller that we can.  Between that and the damage the virus has done, he might not be aware enough to realize what’s happening,” Stark argued.

Natasha wasn’t convinced.  She wasn’t _at all_ convinced.  She knew Steve better than anyone, and she was acutely aware how much the idea of being cold frightened him sometimes.  It was a visceral reaction, something engrained into the fiber of his being, as if when SHIELD had found him and thawed him, the ice had permanently seeped into his soul and there was simply no way to get it out.  She’d held him through dreams about it, occasionally caught him shivering on the hottest of days when he thought no one was looking, seen him once or twice get trapped in memories triggered by something as mundane as a frigid brush of air.  She’d been there with him on their first mission together, witnessed him suffer through a flashback to the crash, to dying in the crumpled cockpit of the _Valkyrie_ as the Arctic ocean had flooded inside and drowned him and then froze his body.  She _knew_ what this meant to him.  “I can’t do that to him.”

Tony went tense, not so much with anger but with desperation.  “This can save his life!  I know it’s fucking _bullshit_ that it has to be like this, but if it works, if we can get him cold enough to slow down the serum, we can buy him days, if not weeks.  And he’s so screwed up right now, he won’t remember it.”

Natasha glared at him.  All of her anger at him came surging back.  How could someone so smart be so stupid sometimes?  “You don’t know that.  There’s no way you could know that.”

Tony was caught in his lie, so he sighed in exasperation.  He slumped, every bit of his fatigue plain on his bruised face and battered form.  “There isn’t another way.  There aren’t any more options.  If we don’t at least try this, he’s going to die before we can save him.”

“How long until we can try, Tony?” Bruce asked.

The inventor’s eyes glazed in though.  “I already sent for the equipment from our R&D department here in Manhattan.  Bare minimum?  I could have this up and running in an hour.”

Betty looked at Bruce.  “We’ll need to step him down gradually into the freeze,” she declared.  “A sudden drop would probably kill him with his body already so damaged.  The shock would be fatal.”

“Right,” Bruce agreed.  “I can calculate a sequence of temperature drops with plateaus.  That’ll give us time to abort if it seems like he’s not handling it.  It’s also probably how he was able to survive in the ice the first time.  The serum eased the freezing process.”

“What about the serum being so… messed up?” Tony asked.

Bruce shrugged, a small, hapless jerk of a thing.  “We’ll have to take that as it comes.”

“But if this works, it will give us the time we need,” Betty mused.  She turned to Natasha.  “I don’t know Captain Rogers, I admit, but if there’s a chance to save him, even by trying something traumatic for him, he might want to take it.”

Bruce nodded.  “As much as I don’t like it, I have to agree.  Plus there’s something to be said for sleep.”

“There’ll be no pain.  No nightmares or delirium,” Tony said.  “We could get him under for good.  He won’t suffer.”

“It’s your call, Natasha,” Bruce reminded gently, “but I recommend we try this.”  Obviously he’d convinced himself because he spoke with far more conviction than even a few seconds prior.

Natasha felt outnumbered.  And maybe she should.  That had to be worth something.  Ending Steve’s pain.  As awful as it was for them to watch, it was much more so for him, reliving horrors and struggling to breathe through the blood in his chest and shivering until his bones cracked.  Moreover, these were three of the smartest people on the planet, maybe among the smartest in history, and if they were telling her the risk was worth the potential gain, then it was.  It had to be.  She knew it.  Logic dictated that something that could gain them time, something that could keep Steve alive so that they could work on a way to save him, had to be a priority.  Betty was right.  Were Steve in his right mind, he’d do this.

Those were compelling reasons.  Still, she couldn’t simply agree.  “I want to tell him first.”

Both Tony and Bruce frowned, obviously displeased with that idea.  “You want to give him a chance to say no?  Or get worked up?” Bruce asked.

“He’s not with it enough to understand,” Tony argued, “let alone consent.  He’s out of his head.  He can’t tell where he is or who he’s with!”  That last thing he said with painful desperation coloring his tone, like he was trying to convince himself of something.  It wasn’t well hidden at all.  “This is in his best interests.”

“Yes,” Natasha agreed sharply, “but I’m not doing it without telling him.  And you need to find a way for me to be with him.”

Bruce looked aghast.  “Natasha–”

“Make it happen, Bruce.  I’m not putting him through this alone.”

* * *

Steve languished in a world of white.  He walked and walked, forever it seemed, but it never changed.  There was no direction to take, no path to escape.  No rest.  No succor or hope or solace.  No way out.  Nothing but an endless winter.  He was alone and lost in it.  _Lost._

There were hints of things now and again.  Voices.  Touches.  Nightmares.  Sometimes the world of white turned into fire, brutal and burning.  Sometimes it was black, a shadowy abyss into which he plummeted with no hope of stopping his descent.  And there were other times still where that world was filled with people and places.  His mother’s apartment in Brooklyn.  The alley behind their building where he and Bucky played stickball.  Their classroom at George Washington High School.  The old desk in the grocer’s where he balanced the books.  Camp Lehigh.  SSR’s base in London.  His apartment in DC.  The Triskelion.  Stark Tower.  So many memories.  They were all fleeting and out of order. Disjointed.   He couldn’t make sense of it.  War and fighting.  Running.  Losing his way.  _Lost._ Voices taunting from the chaos.  _“You’ll never find her.  She’s ours.  You are a fool, Captain, and you let us take her.”_

 _No._ Soft kisses and tender touches.  _Natasha._   She was somewhere beyond this hell, somewhere outside the world of white.  He could find her.  He had before.  He just had to keep looking.  Keep walking.

So he did.  There was a distinct sound, a quiet rumbling, a repetitive swishing.  He focused on that, let it guide him across the nothingness until he saw an ocean.  It was silver and lilac, rippling glass under a blackened sky.  And she was there, bathed in snowy silk, pure and beautiful.  The wind swept through her hair.  She was looking out over the water, but when he got closer, she turned.  “There’s a storm coming, Steve,” she softly said.  “Can you hear it?”

He could hear it.  Violent thunder.  Lightning.  Winds ripping life and limb.  She reached out her hand to him, smiling that sweet smile of hers as the tempest came to them.  “Hold onto me.”  He took her hand, closing his eyes.  She was there with him.  _She was there._   He was safe.  He’d found her.  He was never letting her go.  Not again.  They couldn’t have her.  They wouldn’t take her.  She was his, and he was hers, and they’d be together in the storm.

All he had to do was _not let go._

_Hold onto me._

“Steve, can you hear me?”

“Let’s just take him now.  He’s really out of it.  It’ll be easier if he–”

“No.  I’m not doing this without him at least knowing what’s happening.  He can’t think he’s back there.  I won’t do that to him.”

“Natasha–”

 _“_ No!  Did you hear me?  _No.”_   Hands brushed over his face.  Tender familiar hands, reaching through the world of white. Grabbing him.  Pulling him free.  Taking him up.  _Saving him._ “Steve, open your eyes and look at me.  Please.  I need you to wake up now.  Open your eyes.”

He did.  It was difficult, and the light pouring down around the shadows looming over him was painfully bright.  He blinked a few times, freeing tears and fighting to focus, to make those blurry, dark blobs turn into something he recognized.  It took his scattered senses a moment more to make sense of it.

And there she was, eyes wet and worried, face pale.  She was behind glass again.  No, not glass.  Some sort of mask.  She smiled.  It was beautiful.  It was freedom.  “Steve?  Can you say my name?”

“…’tasha.”  He was awake now.  Things hurt.  Things felt _real._ “You’re… you’re here.”

That made her eyes tear up further.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I’m here.  You’re with me.”

Thoughts tumbled around in his head.  Liberated from the world of white, they came in a flurry.  He had things he needed to tell her.  He remembered now.  Things he needed to say to her.  And Clint.  And Tony.  He needed to make sure…  “You’re okay?”

He’d probably asked that before, but his brain was so dysfunctional that he couldn’t be sure and couldn’t remember the answer if he had.  She nodded.  Those tender hands felt strange.  He vaguely realized it was because they were enclosed in rubber.  All of her body was enclosed in rubber.  Some sort of bulky suit.  He couldn’t see the babies.  He couldn’t see them.  “I’m fine,” she assured.  “I’m fine.  The twins are fine.  But I need to–”

He _needed_ to make sure.  “Clint…  Gotta talk to Clint.  Tony.”  Someone had told him Clint was gone.  But Tony was there.  He was one of the shadows towering over him.  Steve reached out a trembling hand, trying to grab him and pull him closer because he couldn’t recall if he’d asked what he needed to ask.  “Did you…”  His voice hardly worked, and he hardly recognized it.  He had no strength, but he managed to hook his fingers onto Tony’s arm.  It was smooth and cold, not flesh and cloth but hard metal plating.  Iron Man.  “Did you promise?”

Tony’s one hand was free of its gauntlet, and he took Steve’s fingers from his arm.  Instead of dropping his hand, though, he held it firmly, squeezing.  His eyes were dark and deep.  Solemn with purpose.  “I promised,” he swore.

Steve let go.  All the frantic energy bursting through him completely dissipated, and he nearly sank back into the nothingness in his mind.  It was too hard to fight, and that promise was all that mattered.  He couldn’t quite recall what he’d made Tony promise, but he knew it was important, and nothing else was worth fighting for.  _You’re dying, Rogers._

Tony’s voice came back, cutting through the haze in his head.  “Steve, listen.  Listen to me now.  Don’t worry about that or anything else.  We need you focused here for a moment.”  It was too hard to do that.  Everything hurt so much, and he was too hot.  So hot and tired.  “Come on.  Open your eyes and look at us.”

Natasha’s hands pressed into his cheeks.  “Look at me, Steve.  You need to look at me.”  _Natasha needs me._   He forced his eyes open again, forced himself to focus on her face behind that glassy mask and rubbery suit.  “We’re going to try to slow down the disease, okay?  And take the pain away.  I promise you: we’re going to take the pain away.”  _Nothing can take the pain away._ He wanted to laugh, but it came out as a mangled moan.  Natasha’s eyes filled with something he couldn’t comprehend.  “We’re going to put you to sleep.  You won’t hurt anymore.  I swear to you this will make it better.”

 _Nothing can make it better.  There’s a storm coming._   He laughed again.  Something pushed its way behind his back, and his skin throbbed with the slightest pressure.  His chuckle turned into a pained grunt.  Bile burned the back of his throat, as he was pushed and pulled upward.  “What…”

“We’re going to get you to sleep, Cap,” Tony assured.  They were moving around him, gathering things, gathering him.  Natasha had her arms around his shoulders, keeping him steady because the world was spinning and spinning, and Tony was poking him with something.  He was somehow numb and hurting at once, like his nerves were so tortured and tormented at this point that they were simply too confused to process sensations correctly.  He watched with unseeing eyes as Tony jabbed a series of needles into his bicep, Natasha holding his arm steady and his shirt out of the way.  Medications, his brain sluggishly supplied.  He didn’t understand, but he couldn’t muster the energy to question.  “We’re going to make this better.  Do you trust us?”

That seemed an odd question.  “What…”

“Come on.  Let’s get you on your feet.  Can you walk?”

He didn’t know.  Could he?  He had been.  He’d been walking so far for so long.  He supposed a few more steps wouldn’t matter.  And he didn’t have much of a choice because Tony was pulling his arm over metallic shoulders and lifting.  The moment he rose, the world went white again, and nausea took him fast and vicious.  His throat tightened and his lungs seized, and the bitter warmth of blood flooded his mouth.  He was coughing, choking, his body shuddering and straining to get the liquid out of his chest.  Again this was happening.  He couldn’t take it anymore!  He couldn’t…

“Easy, baby,” Natasha said.  Even though her voice didn’t sound quite right and even though there were _things_ between them, rubber and plastic and glass, she was _there_.  Her hand was on his back, soothing and stroking, and her face was right in front of him, her eyes as green as the ocean and as wide and vast and powerful.  “Easy.  You’re alright.  Get it out.”

He did.  There was no choice.  There was never any choice.  And when it was over, he felt moderately strong enough to stand a bit straighter.  Tony was there with a washcloth, damp and cool, and it felt glorious as he wiped his face.   Natasha was softly offering more encouragement.  More promises.  “We’re going to get you through this.  Alright?  But we have to walk.”

 _Why?_   He couldn’t get the air in his lungs to ask.  He could only groan, a ragged desperate thing that echoed inside his throbbing head, as they got him more upright.  Tony waited until he was steady, and then they were going.

Each step was torture.  He slipped in and out of consciousness, out of nightmares, out of memories.  Walking through the fog, through the cloud cover that had blinded him, as he’d searched for Natasha.  Being dragged through the Triskelion by the Winter Soldier, his captor and savior at once.  Marching through Europe, one skirmish after another, burning alive in the sweltering summer heat with the Howling Commandos at his side.  He was burning alive now.  He wanted to collapse.  He wanted to die.

But Natasha was there, pressed to his flank, guiding him.  Helping him.  “Keep going,” she said softly.  “We’re with you.  We’re not letting go.  Hold onto me.  I’ve got you.”

“Bucky?”  Where was Bucky?  He’d been there before…  Hadn’t he?

Natasha’s eyes filled with something he didn’t understand.  “He’s… he’s not here yet.  He’s coming.”

He closed his eyes in relief.  “Babies…” he whispered.

“They’re fine,” she assured in a sterner voice, not dismissive of his concerns but not interested in addressing any of this, either.  “They’re fine.  That’s why I’m wearing this ridiculous thing.”

“It’s a good look on her, don’t you think, Cap?” Tony weakly joked from his other side. 

He gasped a sobbing laugh.  He didn’t know why that was funny.  Nothing was making sense.  “No.”

“At least my armor isn’t compensating for something,” Natasha returned.  Tony gave a snide giggle.  And Steve staggered.  “Enough talk.  You just work on keeping yourself on your feet.”

“She’s right.  Almost there,” Tony promised.  He was bearing almost all of Steve’s weight.  He felt like he should apologize for that, but he couldn’t with the fever devouring his thoughts.  “Almost there.”

“Where… where’re we goin’?”

“Some place nice and cool.”

Steve choked out another laugh.  “Cool sounds nice.”  They didn’t laugh back, not that he noticed much.  Concentrating on staying upright, on shuffling one foot in front of the other, was too consuming to care.  He focused on that.  _Walk.  Keep walking.  Keep going.  Keep fighting._

Sometime later – an eternity for all he could tell – they were at another room.  He didn’t recognize it.  Everything was muzzy, gray around the edges, blurry and indistinct.  But he saw a pod-like structure in the center of the small place.  It was sleekly gray, with glass on its front.  He didn’t know what it was, but there were memories jabbing into his brain.  A capsule big enough to fit a man in a room full of scientists.  Peggy and Howard and Doctor Erskine.  And another one, down in a dungeon beneath the Triskelion in a room full of monsters.  Pierce and the STRIKE Team and the Winter Soldier.  _Bucky._

A sudden bolt of logical thought stabbed into his brain.  Bucky wasn’t there.  Bucky wasn’t coming.  This wasn’t meant for Bucky.

This was meant for him.

“N-no,” he moaned, trying to pull away.  He dug his heels into the floor and fought, but he had no strength.  “No.  I don’t – I don’t want to.”

Iron Man was much more powerful than him, and the armor didn’t let him go.  Tony pulled him deeper inside, closer to that pod.  He wasn’t going to go in there.  He wasn’t going to let them hurt him.  “It’s alright, Steve,” Tony promised.  “Come on.  It’s going to be fine.”

“No!  No!”  Tony sat him onto a stretcher beside the apparatus.  Steve pushed Iron Man away feebly, but his blows meant nothing because he was weak.  Wrecked.  _Ruined._   And they were going to ruin him more.

Natasha was there in front of him, her gloved hands cupping his face again.  “Steve, listen to me.  Look at me, okay?”  He couldn’t.  His eyes kept going to the pod.  Bruce was there and a woman he didn’t know with a pretty, peaceful face and long brown hair.  They were getting things ready, fingers flying over controls, preparing supplies.  Something was hissing.  Pipes were connected to the opened pod, and there were clouds of vapor emerging from it.  The room was turning cold.  He didn’t understand.  _He didn’t understand._   “Steve, look at me now.”  Natasha’s firm voice and fingers pressing into his cheeks snagged his wayward attention.  She turned him so that he could only see her.  “I need you to stay calm now.  Understand me?”

“Nat…” he whispered.  “I don’t…”

She went on, speaking slowly despite the frenzy of dizzying activity around them.  She was holding him close, grounding him against her, trying to reduce the world to a sphere that only held the two of them.  “I need you to trust me.  I need that now.  I love you, Steve.  I love you so much.”  Her voice cracked, but she got control of it.  “You know I wouldn’t hurt you.”

Did he know that?  The fever had twisted everything in his head, and while he stared into her eyes, stared at her watching him like this, reality blurred and he was on a burning dock in Russia, fires licking the black sky, and she had a gun to his chest.  Her eyes weren’t her eyes anymore, not as they should be.  They were tinged with lust and insanity and violence.  She pulled the trigger, and there was thunder and red rain.  _“Promise me you won’t let me hurt you again.”_

He’d promised.  “I know,” he whispered.

She smiled through the beginnings of tears.  “Tony and Bruce think there’s a chance we can stop the virus.  But they need time to make that happen, and… and there’s no time left, Steve.  Okay?  You’re… you’re not going to make it much longer.”

Some part of him knew that.  _You’re dying, Rogers._   And that was why.  That was why he’d needed Tony to promise him.  Promise him he’d take care of Natasha and the babies.  That was what it was, what he’d needed, because this was over and he wasn’t going to make it.  As long as they were safe, what happened to him wasn’t important.  “Doesn’t… doesn’t matter.”

Her eyes flashed, and he was conscious enough to regret his words immediately.  “Yes, it does!  Don’t say that.  Damn it, Steve, don’t you _ever_ say that.  Don’t you know how much I need you?  How much I love you?  I couldn’t say it before I met you.  I couldn’t even _feel_ it.  You showed me how to love, how to _live_ , so don’t you dare tell me that you _don’t matter._ ”

Now he sobbed, terrified of what he’d done.  “Sorry.”

She held his face tighter, pulling his forehead to hers.  The plastic didn’t let them touch, but this was the closest they’d been in what felt like forever.  It was enough to drive him back down into unconsciousness, that sweet comfort of having her near.  But she didn’t let him.  “Look at me.  Eyes on me.  Please.”  He could hardly manage it.  She sniffled, her cheeks wet and her lips red from her teeth worrying them.  “Tony and Bruce are going to save you.  But in order for them to do that, we need to put you into cryostasis.”

Again, he couldn’t understand.  There was still some sliver of his mind that was functioning, that connected the term _cryostasis_ with the Winter Soldier.  That pod, again connected to the Winter Soldier.  As tiny as that muddled connection was, it blossomed into so many others with a blink and a breath.  The one that was the strongest, the most striking, was _cold._

They were going to freeze him.

Terror tore through him.  He pulled away from her.  “No,” he whispered.  “N-no.  No, I can’t.”

Natasha held him firm, never looking away from his eyes even as hers filled with tears.  “If there was any other way, we’d do it.  I swear to you, we would.  But there isn’t, Steve.  It has to be this.  Do you understand?”

That sliver of rational thought did.  But nothing else could begin to.  “No, Nat.  Please.  I can’t!”

She was struggling to hold herself together, fighting to be strong and confident.  “I know you’re scared.  I am, too.  And I don’t want this.  I don’t want to – to see you do this.  But it’s going to save your life.”  Her words were coming faster.  It was either that or he simply couldn’t follow anymore.  The fever was burning his brain again, stealing his thoughts and leaving only an inferno of panic and terror.  She had his face again, too, and was holding him close and steady.  “I can’t let you die.  We have to try this.  We have to.  And it’ll be okay.  You won’t feel any more pain.  You’ll sleep.”  She gasped a sob before forcing it all down again, all behind a stoic mask.  Even as lost as he was, he could tell it was a lie.  She couldn’t lie to him anymore.  “You’ll sleep, and when you wake up, this’ll all be over.  You’ll be okay.”

 _No._   “Please, I can’t…  I don’t want to…”

But she was forced to move away.  Tony was there.  And Bruce, bearing needles.  Steve couldn’t do more than gasp for air that wasn’t coming, crying almost as much as he was breathing, as they injected him a seemingly infinite number of times.  If that was supposed to help, it didn’t.  They were talking, both to each other and then to him, but he couldn’t hear them.  Their lips were moving, their touches gentle and soothing, but he couldn’t hold onto any of it.  There was nothing but pain, and he was drowning in it.

Sometime later (it could have been minutes or hours – he couldn’t tell) they were undressing him.  Tony was holding him upright while Bruce pulled his clothes away.  Bruce was trying to explain why, that nothing nonorganic could be in there with him, but that meant nothing.  The room spun and he shivered, freezing already.  Tony was making more promises.  Bruce, too.  This would be okay.  This was the only way.  It was going to work, and when it was over, they’d have a way to cure him.  Empty oaths and shallow condolences.  All he could feel was the cold air on his aching flesh, causing painful goose pimples and even more painful shivers.  All he could see was that pod.  Natasha tried to stand in front of it and block his vantage, but she couldn’t completely.  He knew it was there.  And he was terrified.  “Please,” he begged again.  “Please.  Please don’t make me do this…”

“It’s alright,” Bruce softly swore.  At least, he thought it was Bruce.  Everything was blurring again.  Past.  Present.  Nightmares.  “It won’t hurt.”

“Easy, Cap,” Tony said, holding his arm tighter.  “Easy.”

“Let me go,” he whined.  “Please.  Not again.  Please, I can’t do this again.  Please.  _Please._ ”

“He’s going to hyperventilate,” Bruce warned.  “With his lungs this damaged, that can’t happen.”

Natasha was right there.  “Steve, try to calm down.”

Tony came even closer.  “Easy,” he chanted again.  “Remember before?  In and out.  Nice and slow.  Come on.  Don’t do this to yourself.”

He wasn’t doing anything to himself.  They were doing it to him.  And he tried not to breathe so roughly, to stress his damaged lungs and body any further, but he just couldn’t.  Panic was taking him now, a cruel, vicious captor, and he couldn’t fight.  Just like he couldn’t fight when Tony half carried him over to the pod.  His muscles were too weak, too stricken with disease.  His body was beyond repair, as devastated as it ever had been before the serum.  He was sick.  He was dying.

He’d rather die than do this again.

_They’re trying to save you.  Natasha needs you.  The twins need you._

He surrendered.  He let them put him inside.  Things moved very quickly.  Cold metal.  Cold needles.  Cold air and cold liquid.  Even the fire of his fever couldn’t burn hot against so much cold.  Bruce and Tony were working, and the woman he didn’t know was with them.  They were talking rapidly with long words and terms that he didn’t understand.  He gave up trying.  He gave up struggling.  There was no point now.

Natasha stood in front of him where he was reclined and strapped into the pod.  She was smiling sadly, putting all her effort into it.  “It’ll be alright,” she promised again.  “It will be.”

Somehow, and even though it hurt, he smiled.  This wasn’t her, all these empty oaths and easy solace.  And it was odd that he could feel like this, less frightened of something so terrifying, by just having her with him.  But that was a constant of their lives.  She made him stronger.  Better.  _Whole._ “You… you’re makin’ promises you can’t keep,” he slurred.  “That’s my job.”

She laughed, tears streaming from her eyes, but she somehow stayed calm for his sake.  “You look at me, okay?  Keep looking at me.  I’m going to be right here.  I’m not leaving you for a second.  Not one second.”

Everything fell away.  Control.  Restraint.  He cried too, reaching for her.  His clammy left hand was caught between her gloved ones, rubber where there should have been softness and warmth.  “I don’t want to do this,” he whispered.  A final plea.  “Please, Nat, please don’t make me do this…”

“It’s alright.  I’m so sorry.  I’m sorry!  It’ll be alright!”

Tony was back.  He looked horrified as he finished the last of his preparations.  “Tony,” Steve moaned.  He could hardly get the breath to beg.  “Please, I can’t do this!”

Tony didn’t stop.  No one did.  No one was listening to him.  “Natasha,” the inventor murmured instead, tipping his head toward Steve’s hand clasped between hers.  “That, too.”

Steve didn’t realize what he meant until Natasha grasped the ring on his finger and pulled it off.    _No._   _Don’t take it._ “I love you.”  She sobbed finally, harsh and hurting.  “I love you so much, Steve.  I love you.  I love you!”  He never got a chance to answer her, to tell her he loved her, too, because the pod was closing and she had to let him go.

There was more hissing.  More things whirring and powering up.  The door sealed, trapping him inside this tiny, frigid space.  He couldn’t keep a hold of his panic anymore.  It burst out of him.  He thought he heard himself scream over and over again.  He thought he squirmed, struggled, banged on the door as much as he could.  He thought he did.  He didn’t know for sure.  But he knew he saw her eyes on his, unwavering, filled with horror and doubt and so much grief but never looking away.  He never looked away, either.  _Hold onto me._

He tried, but he couldn’t.  The cold came, freezing him inside and out, and the world of white swallowed him whole.  And there was nowhere to run.  No place to hide.  No path.  No direction.  No way to escape.  Nothing.

Nothing but an endless winter.


	11. Chapter 11

Sam lost Bucky during the night.  Not that that was at all surprising.  He knew he was good at what he did, that he was in fact an excellent soldier, but he was a novice, a nothing and nobody, compared to the Winter Soldier.  The guy was part assassin, part machine, part legend, and part ninja.  During the flight from the battle on the farm, he’d hoped he’d kept pace, but it had been damn near impossible to tell.  Without his flight suit, he’d had only his own two legs and stamina, and none of that was enough to maintain pursuit.  He’d realized it had probably been hopeless right away, but his panic and pride wouldn’t let him quit until it was completely undeniable.  The hints of footsteps and fleeting shadows in the fields and forests around the farmlands that he’d thought could be Barnes’ were only the workings of his desperate imagination.  When the sun had rose, spilling pale light over a gray and weary world, he’d stopped running and accepted the truth.

“Damn it,” he whispered, standing in a barren, frozen field.  He turned around and around, sweeping burning eyes everywhere, but there was nothing but rolling plains filled with rows of dirt and the bent remains of last year’s crops.  There were no clues.  No trails.  It was early morning, and he’d run and searched for most the night with nothing to show for it but bruises, fatigue, worry, and _failure._ He was alone.  “Now what?”

There was no one to answer, of course.  Sam caught his breath slowly, his aching knees and feet at long last giving out on him.  He didn’t stop them, collapsing down onto the cold, hard earth, Steve’s shield clunking down beside him.  He was shivering in the chill as the warmth of physical exertion began to fade, so he tucked his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.  For a moment the exhaustion was so bad that breathing was all he could do.  It wasn’t just the exhaustion, either.  It was pain and disappointment and anger.  They’d _had_ Barnes, had him right there.  And Sam knew they’d gotten through to him.  He’d seen the cracks in the other man’s eyes, the dawning realization that they’d been telling the truth.  Steve was sick.  Steve was in trouble.  They were his friends, and they were trying to help him.  Bucky _had_ to help him.  Underneath whatever hell in which the Winter Soldier lived, Bucky Barnes was trying to put his life back together.

But obviously something about Barton had spooked the other man.  Sam gritted his teeth in frustration.  He didn’t know, and honestly, he didn’t care.  He didn’t think Clint would have knowingly done anything to cause everything to fall apart as it had, but it was hard not to be angry about it.  It was water under the bridge, he supposed, but, _damn it,_ this could have been _over_ had things not gotten out of control, had fucking Swordsman and his posse of HYDRA henchmen not shown up.  They could have been back in New York, and Barnes could have been donating his blood and saving Steve’s life.  Sam shivered and not just from the bitter chill in the air.  Now Barnes was gone.  Barton was gone, maybe dead.  And he was out here alone with no idea what to do or where to go next.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.  He’d been a little hesitant to use it, not with HYDRA here and probably looking for him.  Maybe that was paranoid, but after that HYDRA virus had infiltrated Stark’s communications network a few months ago and caused Steve and Natasha to be captured by the Red Room, he’d been wary in general of tech.  He pulled the StarkPhone loose and saw it was a message from Hill.  No frills or pleasantries, just as she was, only a simple: “Status.”

He frowned, not knowing how to answer that.  Not _wanting_ to answer that.  So much was riding on this, on finding Barnes.  Accepting the fact that they’d had Barnes in their grasp but he’d slipped free was too hard, too much.  And Clint.  He knew he needed to backtrack, return to the area of the fight to try and track down the archer.  He knew he needed to keep going, and he knew he had to provide some sort of response.  He could only imagine what was going on back at the Tower, Steve suffering as he had been when they’d left, Natasha running herself ragged with worry she was trying and failing to hide, the others working so desperately to make this better and failing…  Not responding was not an option.  He sighed and thumbed the screen.  “Working on it,” he typed.  “Made contact but lost him.”

He didn’t expect a text back, but one came all the same.  “Rogers in cryosleep.  You have more time but hurry.”  When he made sense of that, he murmured a curse and forced himself not to think too deeply about it.  If putting Steve into cryostasis or whatever (he didn’t pretend to understand the science of it – he just knew what that _meant_ , both in terms of what had happened to Steve before and how the technology had been used against Barnes) had bought them some time, then that was a good thing.  They had time.  There was no way he would waste it. 

That was enough to drive some energy back into his frozen limbs, and he pushed himself up with a groan.  It had been stupid to collapse out here in the middle of someone’s field.  He gazed around again, trying to figure out where he was, but everything looked the same.  Dead and withered husks and stalks of corn.  Brown earth.  Frost.  Farmhouses, barns, and silos here and there.  An occasional copse of trees.  Nothing terribly indicative of where he was or where they’d been before.  There was a dirt road to his left some ways away and a house in the adjacent pasture.  He didn’t recognize that from their flight in, but it had been dark and difficult to tell anything apart from anything else.  Sighing in irritation, he turned back to the phone in his hand.  He’d been as reticent to use it to figure out his location as much as he’d been wary of calling.  _In for a penny, in for a pound._   He turned the phone’s GPS system on waited for it to figure out where the hell he was.

About thirty seconds later, he had an answer.  He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry.  He actually wasn’t that far from Murray’s farm.  Either the Winter Soldier had led him in circles or he’d gotten himself so turned around in the dark last night that he’d done it to himself.  It didn’t matter.  About a mile’s walk down that dirt road would take him right back to Murray’s land.  He could cut across the north pasture there and maybe make it back to the barn (whatever was left of it).  Following the road was probably a risk, but it would get him there faster.  It had been hours and hours since the fight.  The best he could hope for at this point was to find Clint, regroup, and start searching again.

Making sure his guns were well-secured and well-hidden under his coat, he pocketed his phone, zipped up his jacket, and picked up Steve’s shield.  The vibranium was scuffed, but it was still damn obvious what it was and what it meant.  Captain America’s symbol was iconic and extremely well-known.  He couldn’t go traipsing down a country road with it slung over his back for everyone to see.  Near the edge of the field, the pressure of tires had turned frozen earth into mud.  Grimacing, he made his way over and crouched beside the gooey brown mess.  “Sorry, Steve.  Know you like this thing all shiny.”  He scooped some of glop up and smeared it all over Steve’s shield.  Thankfully it was viscous enough to coat the disc pretty well, obscuring both the colors and the star.  Happy enough with that, he wiped his hand on his pants and started walking.

The mud on the side of the road squished loudly with his heavy steps.  After pulling up the collar of his jacket, he stuffed one frigid hand in his pocket, held the shield over his shoulder with the other, and tried to seem normal as he walked.  As he did, his heart started pounding more.  He really knew nothing of what had happened.  He should have given up and gone back hours ago, because who the hell knew what had happened since?  If Clint was hurt or dead…  _Shit.  He’s got to be fine.  That guy has gone through hell and back.  Literally.  I’ll find him._   He didn’t know what was worrying him the most at this point: Clint’s state, Barnes’ escape, or Steve’s fate.  It was all one miserable storm of anxiety inside him, and he found himself picking up his pace without realizing it.  Occasionally a car passed, and every time one did, he stiffened up involuntarily, tried to seem natural and unsuspicious, and _prayed_ it wasn’t a cop.  Surely there would be some around Murray’s place; when he’d run the house and the barn had been burning with a slew of HYDRA thugs with rocket launchers trying to blow the shit out of them.  That sort of thing tended to attract the attention of law enforcement.  Thankfully, nobody paid him much mind.  Still, there seemed to be a tension to the morning, and Sam could smell the smoke even this far from the farm.

He checked his phone to determine where to turn onto the field again.  Once he was sure no one was coming along the road in either direction, he summoned up some energy and jogged off the road.  He bounded across the field.  It was much easier to run now.  He had bruises all over from falling in ruts and stumbling across holes, but with the morning light he could at last avoid the pitfalls.  In pretty short order he came up to the edge of Murray’s fields.  The barn was not far from here.  There was a little grove of trees ahead (which he’d spent some time searching in the chaos of last night based on the probably erroneous belief that Barnes would have hid there).  He headed to that.  The trees and shrubs were stripped of leaves, but it would provide enough cover so he could watch hopefully unseen and get some idea of what was going on at the house.

Sure enough, it was crawling with cops.  Sam winced, both at the number of local law enforcement officers on the scene and the damage done to Murray’s property.  The nice, old house in which they’d talked last night was nothing more than a charred pile of rubble.  The barn was much the same, a blackened array of wreckage spread over the yard where they’d encountered Barnes.  There was debris all over and huge ruts like wounds in the earth, dislocated dirt and burned grass spread like a powder.  And there were bodies a bit further down, black ops soldiers fanned out in the field.  Obviously Clint had fought back.  He wasn’t close enough to see if any of them were him, though.  The thought left him aching.

Murray had obviously survived, though.  He stood close to the remains of his house, talking to some of the police officers.  Sam couldn’t quite hear what they were saying.  The retired cop was still wearing what he’d been wearing the night before, and aside from a horrified expression and soot smeared on his plump face, he was untouched.  Sam crouched in the trees for a few minutes, trying to figure out what to do.  His brain was so encumbered by emotion and exhaustion that he couldn’t come up with a good answer, other than get closer and figure out what the situation was.  If one of those dead guys was Clint…  Or Barnes…

He was moving before he thought better of it.  Thankfully, these were local cops so they hadn’t formed much of a perimeter around this probably highly unusual crime scene.  It wasn’t too hard to slip away from the cover of the trees and get to the remains of the barn.  He hid behind the only section of the structure still partially standing and listened to the two cops on the other side.

“–gotta call in the FBI on this, Chief.  We can’t handle it.  This is like a damn warzone.”

“Any idea on who these men are?”

The younger guy shook his head.  He had a very Midwestern twang.  “None.  And we don’t have the resources to run checks.  We need the FBI.  At least the state troopers.”

The chief seemed rather reluctant to hand over the situation.  This was undoubtedly the biggest thing he’d ever seen.  “What about the two guys?”

The young cop was flipping through a notebook.  “One in his late thirties, maybe early forties.  Caucasian.  Shorter with brown hair, light colored eyes.  Name: Clint Barton.  The other guy was taller, younger.  African American.  Goes by Sam Wilson.”  Sam stiffened.  _Shit._   Hindsight was twenty-twenty.  Telling Murray the truth about who they were had obviously been a bad idea.  “The guy who owns this property says…  Well, you’re not gonna believe this, Chief.  These two guys claimed they were Avengers.”

The chief looked severely doubtful.  “That’s a load of crap.  Avengers?  What the hell would Avengers be doing all the way out here?”

“You got me.”

“He pulling our legs?”

“I don’t think so.”  The kid closed his notebook and looked around at the damage and the spread of empty farmland beyond it.  “He’s an ex-cop from New York.  Besides, he doesn’t have a reason to lie.  He says they were asking about Tony Stark’s parents’ deaths.”  The chief looked even more doubtful, like that was possible.  The kid shrugged.  “Seems like he got caught in the middle of a hell of a firefight over something.”

“Any of the dead guys match up with his descriptions?”

“No.”  Sam’s heart shuddered in relief, and he closed his eyes.  Whatever had happened to Clint, wherever he was, at least he wasn’t dead in the field.

“Then they ran, probably back to New York, and there’s no way we can touch them.”

“I _know,_ Chief.  That’s why we need the FBI!”

They walked away, arguing still.  Sam took a moment to gather himself.  Just because Clint wasn’t here didn’t mean he wasn’t hurt or in trouble.  Were any of the dead men Duquesne?  There was no way to tell, not without going and checking (which was disturbing, but he’d be willing to do it).  That wouldn’t be an option for a while, though, and he didn’t think there was time to wait until the cops left (if they even did before moving the bodies).  He could just reveal himself to them.  Theoretically he hadn’t done anything wrong, and with their help, his chances of finding Barton would increase.  But he didn’t trust them, not to arrest him or that they would believe him.  He let his hand drop over his phone.  It was extremely tempting to use it.  _Call Hill.  She’ll have a way to deal with this._ No matter how screwed up a situation was, Hill always seemed to have a way to fix it.

Before he could get his phone free, however, something caught his eye.  It wasn’t far, just a few yards or so, half buried under broken and burnt boards from the barn.  Sam stared at it in confusion for a long moment.  Black fabric?  It looked like nylon.  Then it dawned on him.  _Bucky had a backpack._   Excitement coiled in his gut, and it was all he could do to stay still.  He waited until all the cops were busy and turned away again before setting down Steve’s shield and darting out from behind the barn.  He tried to be small, to make his footsteps quiet, glancing between the cops and the bag.  Once he reached the debris, he rapidly pulled it away, inwardly flinching at every rattle and scrape.  Nobody noticed.  He grabbed up the soot-covered pack and sprinted back to his hiding spot.

Safe behind the remains of the barn, he crouched and set his prize to the ground.  He hesitated a second, feeling a tad guilty about rifling through another man’s possessions (especially a man who’d been tortured and tormented as much as Barnes had), but there wasn’t time for doubt now.  His frozen fingers fumbled for the zipper.  He didn’t know what he expected to find inside, but this…  _No, it makes sense._   Books.  _Captain America and the Howling Commandos._   _The Real Stories From the Front Lines: SSR and Its Secrets.  Humble Heroes: How Captain America Was Borne of the Great Depression.  The Sentinel of Liberty.  The Biographies of Steven Rogers and James Barnes._   And not just books about Steve and the war.  _Howard Stark: The Man Behind the Technology.  Stark’s Rise to Fortune.  The Legacy of the Merchant of Death._ They’d clearly been stolen from a library or two.  There were also the files from the offices Barnes had raided out on Long Island.  So many files about Stark and the investigation into his death.  Sam pulled a few of them out, flipping through the old pages, brow furrowed and eyes scanning.  There was a great deal of information here about Stark, about his company, lists of places and people, an entire history of a man…

“Hands up!”

Sam had been so swept up in what he’d found that he’d _completely_ lost focus on his surroundings.  _Shit._   All it had taken was a moment.  Now there was a gun on him; he could feel it behind him.  For a second he feared it was Swordsman.  HYDRA.  “I mean it, sir.  Hands up!”

No, it was one of the cops.  Sam gritted his teeth, furious with himself.  “You don’t want to do this,” he warned.

The cop was already talking into a walkie-talkie.  “I need backup behind the barn!”  The gun shook a little.  “Get your hands up!  I mean it!”

“Come on, man,” Sam pleaded.  God, how could he have been so damn _stupid_?  “You don’t know what’s going on.  I need to be able to find–”

There was a thunder of feet, and Sam glanced around the edge of the debris.  A company of cops were coming.  More guns came out.  Any chance of running was gone now.  Or fighting.  He wasn’t going to hurt a cop.  These guys had no idea what was going on, and he wasn’t going to make the situation worse.  “Hands up!  _Now!_ ”

Dropping Barnes’ files to the ground, he had no choice but to comply, rising to his full height and raising his hands.  They grabbed his arms and yanked them behind his back.  They patted him down and immediately found his weapons, of course, escalating their horror and the tension even more.  Yelling and shouting, the cops pushed him down onto the ground.  Handcuffs came out, snapping around his wrists.  Sam went limp, closing his eyes.  All he could do was grit his teeth and keep wondering what the hell he was going to do as they arrested him.

* * *

“You see that guy over there?”

Jacques pointed, and Clint looked.  In the crowds roaming the grounds and watching the performers of the Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders go through their routines, there was a man.  In a sharp blazer, neatly pressed slacks, and expensive shoes, he was nicely dressed, nicer than anyone else here.  He stuck out like a sore thumb, him and his pretty wife and cute children.  “Yeah,” Clint responded, peeking out from behind the curtain of Jacques’ tent.  “Yeah, I see ’em.”

“Watch.”

Clint watched.  The people around ooo’ed and aaah’ed, entranced by the spectacles, but his eyes were on the man.  A moment later, a vendor came by with cotton candy, and his daughter squealed and pointed.  Out came the man’s wallet.  Out came the bills from the wallet, more than necessary to buy the treat.  This wasn’t the first time.  The daughter laughed and pointed at something else, at stuffed animals and games and goodies, and he threw the money around, buying and buying, loose with it.  The wallet went back into his jacket.  “Yeah,” he murmured.

Jacques’ hand closed tightly around his slim shoulder.  “Somebody so careless with money doesn’t deserve it, don’t you think?”  Clint turned from his friend and looked back at the man with his family.  They were having a wonderful time, oblivious that they were being observed like this.  Wealthy and affluent.  A family enjoying an evening at the carnival together.  He ignored the emotions gnawing at him, but it was hard.  “You know what I mean, kid.”

“So?”

“So…”  Jacques dropped his other hand to Clint’s shoulder and turned him around.  Tucked behind the curtain, no one could see them.  Even Barney, who was helping Trickshot ready his targets across the grassy walk, didn’t seem to notice.  He kept looking over for Clint, obviously concerned and suspicious.  Barney didn’t like him being alone with Jacques.  As soon as he realized the sort of things Jacques was into, he hadn’t wanted Clint with him at all, let alone this much.  But Clint was Jacques’ assistant.  The Swordsman, as he liked to be called, was the only person in so long who’d taken any interest in him.  So if Jacques wanted him to do something, he’d do it.  “Go take it from him.”

The request shouldn’t have surprised him.  He’d done other things for Jacques, helped him hide stolen things, helped him sell or exchange stolen things, helped him steal.  But he’d never done it himself.  _By_ himself.  Everything with Jacques was a test.  _Everything_.  That was one of the first things he’d learned under Jacques’ tutelage.  Life was kill or be killed.  Life was live or die.  And _everything_ either tore you down or made you stronger.

So it shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did.  He could practically feel Barney’s eyes on him, anxious, _disappointed_ , even though every time he looked at the tent across the way he couldn’t see his brother.  Barney wanted to leave.  Wanted to quit these jobs of theirs that had come when they’d needed them the most, these people who’d taken them in when they’d needed someone to care.  In Clint’s opinion, there was nothing out there.  Where would they go?  What would they do?  Here…  It was like Jacques always told him.  Here he had a chance to be something more, something powerful.  _Something._

“You go do this, kid, and tonight?  I’ll show you something with this.”  The ring of metal on metal was soft, alluring.  The long, silver gleam of the blade pulled from its sheath.  Jacques had never allowed him to actually wield one of his swords before.  He was always practicing with a training blade.  Blunted and impotent.  He desperately wanted to try the real thing.  Power and respect.  Strength.  He wanted that.  Jacques expertly turned the blade in his hand like he was testing it.  “I’ll show you everything.  But you have to prove you want it.  Prove you’re worthy of it.”

Hesitation twisted Clint’s gut.  He looked back outside, purposefully avoiding even glancing in Barney’s direction.  He found the man easily, found him and his family marveling loudly and annoyingly at some spectacle.  He knew he _could_ do this.  But…  “I…  I don’t know.”

“Sure, you do,” Jacques responded.  His long, well-callused fingers curled possessively around him again, jabbing a bit painfully into his flesh.  “This…  These people…  They’re _nothing_.  Going about their piss-poor pathetic excuses for their lives.  They don’t know who you are, what _you_ need.  Where you’ve been.  You’re better than this, than them.  This world is you and everyone else.  You’ve learned that already.”  He had.  He had when he’d seen his father beat his mother.  When he’d seen his father leave the house drunk, his mother’s terrified eyes, big and blue and full of tears, as he’d dragged her with him toward their car.  When he’d seen his parents’ caskets lowered into the earth, Barney stiff beside him.  When he’d seen the boys at the orphanage rip each other up and tear one another down just to be on top.  When he’d been cold and hungry on the streets and no one had glanced his way.  He knew.  “So you take what you need.  You know no one’s going to give it to you, kid.  Take it.”

_Take it._

Clint took a deep breath.  He stood taller, his adolescent body, already sun-weathered and muscled from so much hardship and hard work, straightening under Jacques’ grip.  Then he took a step after that breath and went out into the crowd.

Having been homeless, he knew how to hide.  He knew how to move through a crowd.  Barney had insisted they never steal, never take what wasn’t theirs, even when they’d been cold and hungry.  The temptation had certainly been there, but Barney had kept them on the straight and narrow.  _The straight and narrow._   That couldn’t take him where he needed to go.  Like now.  His old, scuffed sneakers, worn beyond repair, were light on the ground as he stepped and darted and danced through the people around him.  Weaving his way through kids and couples and families, he kept his attention on the man, on _his mark_ , without attracting attention to himself.  He came up behind them.  He was small for his age, so most people tended not to notice him.  This man didn’t, arguing now with his wife over something.  It wasn’t terribly heated yet, but it could (would) become that way.  Things were never as sweet and perfect as they seemed.  Seeing this guy shout at his wife stirred those emotions again, but Clint ignored them and used the situation to his advantage.  With the kids pointedly looking away (a defense mechanism he knew too well), he skirted closer.  And when the man raised his voice and his arm to grip hers, Clint turned, twisted, and bumped into him just so.  “Excuse me,” he gasped.

Irate, the man only turned flashing, threatening eyes at him.  He cowered appropriately, making himself seem small and ashamed, before scurrying away.  The man forgot about him instantly, but he seemed to realize they were arguing in the middle of a public setting because he calmed down before the fight got out of control.  The wife was angry, but she, too, gathered herself, and the children turned back.  The family went on with their evening.  With his interrupted, he’d probably saved her from getting hurt and the kids from having to watch it.  A good deed, one that deserved a reward.

Like the man’s wallet that was clutched in his hand.  Clint tucked it up against his shirt, hiding it in the dark fabric and the evening shadows, and smiled.

Then a hand grabbed his arm and yanked him into space between two of the tents.  “What the _hell_ are you doing?” Barney snapped.  His brown hair was mussed and thick with summer sweat, and his eyes were sharp with fury.  He was bigger than Clint – had always been bigger than Clint – and he was never afraid of throwing his weight around to get his point across.  He shoved Clint roughly, and Clint tripped over his own feet and went down into the grass.  “What is this?  He tells you to steal and you do it?”

Clint scrambled to his feet.  “Back off,” he snarled, holding his prize tighter to his chest.

Barney didn’t back off.  “Have you gone _insane?_   All the bad shit we went through and we _never_ did this.  We didn’t do it because it was wrong.  It’s wrong.”

“It’s survival,” Clint corrected.  “That guy is so rich he won’t miss it.”

Barney’s expression crinkled into one of disgusted confusion.  “You need to wake up, little brother.  Buck’s at least somewhat decent, but Duquesne?  He’s dangerous.  He’s got his fingers in your head, making you see things wrong.  Making you forget who we are.”

“Who are we, Barney?  Huh?”  Tears suddenly burned his eyes.  “We got nothing.  No one.”

“We got each other!” Barney snapped.  “I told you I’d take care of you.  Promised myself.  But I can’t seem to do a damn thing to show you this is horseshit, Clint!  He’s got you learning from him, from him and Buck both, learning how to lie and cheat.”

“He’s teaching me how to fight,” Clint argued, “so no one can hurt us.”

“So you can hurt people,” Barney corrected.  “That’s the kind of fight he’s teaching you.  Don’t act like it’s noble.  And you’re smart, Clint.  You see it and you’re convincing yourself it’s something better.  Or, _worse_ , you don’t care.”  Clint stood his ground, lifting his chin.  What the hell did Barney know about it?  He wasn’t small, wasn’t so angry.  So hurt.  It had always bothered Clint more, what had happened to them.  Barney hadn’t cried when their parents had died.  Barney took things in stride.  Barney hadn’t been picked on at the orphanage.  Barney was _strong_.  And he came closer, grabbing Clint’s shoulders just like Jacques had, and lowered himself to look into his eyes.  “We’re leaving, alright?  We’re running away from this before it gets worse.  I’m eighteen now.  I’ll find a job.  You can finish school.  I can take care of you.”

“No,” Clint replied, pulling away.  Barney didn’t get to decide.  Barney didn’t get to define him, either.  There was power here.  Freedom.  Jacques was offering him that.  _Power._   “No, I don’t want to.”

Barney hit him solidly with that look of _disapproval._   It was worse than any punch he could throw.  “We’re not safe here!  And I’m not letting you go down this road.  It leads to _nowhere._ ”

“You don’t get to decide for me.”

“Clint, are you out of your fucking mind?  _Think_ about what you’re saying!”

He couldn’t hold it in anymore.  “Why’s it so wrong?  Huh?  Why’s it so wrong to want to be good at something?  To have something?  To be something?”

“He’s got nothing to offer you!”

“And you do?”  Barney’s nostrils flared as he took a few long, ragged breaths, like he was struggling to hold onto his temper.  Clint stared him down a moment more.  Even though he was smaller, less capable and more fragile, he _felt_ big and tall.  He’d stolen that guy’s wallet and the guy hadn’t even _noticed_.  _That_ was power.  And it was power to walk away now, because he didn’t need Barney to take care of him.  He could do that himself.  “The world’s been pushing us down and breaking us and hurting us because we’re not strong enough to stand up to it.  What’s wrong with trying to be stronger?”

“There’s a right way,” Barney said slowly, like _he_ was the one teaching.  “A right way, and a wrong way.  _This…_   Stealing?  That’s the wrong way.  And I ain’t gonna stand for it.”

Clint anger was somehow stronger than his pain.  “Then don’t.”  He turned and ran, tears burning in his eyes, the wallet tight against his chest.  He ran all the way to the Swordsman’s tent, where Jacques was likely preparing for the evening’s shows.  He ignored the other members of the carnival he passed, some greeting him, some looking at him uncaringly or questioningly.  Mostly he didn’t look back.  He just didn’t look back.

When he reached the tent, he took a moment or two to catch his breath and get his emotions under control.  Furiously he wiped his eyes dry.  Then he stepped under the flap.  Jacques was waiting for him, of course.  Clint gathered a breath that shook a little too much, staring at his mentor.  The man he was trusting to _make_ him.  He tossed him the wallet.

Jacques was completely uncaring.  He caught the expensive leather billfold and threw it to the side like it was nothing.  “You know what the hardest part is?” he asked, turning back to finishing with his costume.  Black and purple leather, blond hair slicked and pulled into a pony tail.  High boots and gauntlets.  He adjusted it all nonchalantly.  He looked like a fighter, a warrior.  “The hardest part is leaving behind the people who drag you down.”

Did he know?  How the hell could he?  He always seemed to.  He knew _everything._ Jacques turned quickly, pulling his sword from one of the folding tables and thrusting it hilt first toward Clint.  “The world doesn’t favor the weak.”  Clint stared at the hilt before turning his wide-eyed gaze back to Jacques.  He smiled thinly, his eyes alight with something feral.  “You need to cut them loose.”  He nodded.  “Go ahead, kid.  Take it.”

He wrapped his right hand around the hilt.  It felt… good.  Powerful.  _Right._

_Take it._

Clint took a deep breath and opened his eyes.  The memory faded into a haze.  He blinked, but nothing came into focus.  A white blur.  No, something light blue.  And a dark shadow on one side.  The dream lingered more, and he swore he could still smell the carnival, feel the weight of the hilt of the sword in his palm, see Duquesne’s hungry smirk and the violence in his gaze.  But he couldn’t.  He wasn’t a kid anymore.  The dizziness came from nowhere, assailing him hard and fast, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the awful burning in his throat and the pain.  God, so much _pain._

“Easy,” a tender voice hushed.  It was soft, sweet.  Feminine.  “Easy.”  Vague shards of things filled his mind, sharp things that pricked his fingers when he tried to reach for them and pull them together to make a picture.  A farm in a frozen field.  Someone had been with him.  _Sam._   They’d met an old man who was a link to the past.  Not his past.  _Barnes._ And they’d found Barnes.  They’d _had_ to find Barnes.  Rogers was sick.  Rogers could die.  Natasha needed him to find Barnes.  _Barnes._   He felt his lips move, words prodding against them.  He couldn’t understand what he was trying to say.  “Don’t try to talk.  Just rest.”

There wasn’t much choice in the matter.  Clint groaned, letting the darkness take him again.  It was too hard to fight, and he was too tired.  He didn’t know how much time passed before he could open his eyes again.  When he did, things weren’t quite so blurry.  The pain was still there, but he could think despite it.  And the shadow was still there, too, but blinking away the mist of tears produced an image he could at least make out, even if he couldn’t understand it.

It was a woman with long brown hair, a bit wavy around her cheeks.  Her skin was plain, thin-seeming, and very smooth-looking.  She had a roundish face with deep brown eyes, a thin nose, and pink lips that were at the moment pulled into a pensive frown.  She was dressed simply in a pair of well-worn jeans and a plaid flannel button down top.  She was reading a magazine on her lap.  He thought she looked… _familiar_ , but he couldn’t place her at first.  Then another memory came out of the fog to help him.  This woman at the door of his house.  _Not your house._   This wasn’t Iowa in the 80s.  Barney was long gone.  This was March, 2015, outside Lincoln, Nebraska, and he’d passed out from his wounds at a stranger’s home.

_Shit._

He sighed shortly at the awful realization, horrified at what he’d done.  He’d wandered from the battle.  He’d endangered himself and these people.  He’d failed in his mission.  And he was _here_ , wherever here was.  That was the first thing onto which he was capable of holding.  “Where… where am I?”  His voice was soft, broken, hoarse beyond any semblance of normal.  It was so bad that for a moment he wondered if he’d actually been the one talking.  And things didn’t sound quite right, like he couldn’t hear properly.  He knew that he should know why, that the left side of his head hurt and something was wrong there, but he couldn’t focus on it.  “Where…”

The woman looked up from her magazine.  When she saw he was awake, she set it aside and reached for a bottle of water on the table beside the bed.  He saw there were other things there: bandages and pills and his StarkPhone, smashed and broken.  “You’re safe,” she quietly promised.  _Safe._   He was still thinking about that while she put a straw into a water bottle and guided it to his lips.  He drank, weakly at first, but then harder and faster.  “Easy.  Not so much.”

After he was done and panting from even that meager effort, she pulled it away and helped him lay his head back into the pillows.  He looked around, more capable of putting things together now, and realized he was in a bedroom.  It wasn’t very large, but it was nice and homey, decorated with a country flair.  The walls were robin’s egg blue with reddish oak furniture, a dresser, a chest, and a desk cluttered with papers and books behind her.  She sat in a chair, and he was lying in a twin bed with a quilt.  A big window was cracked open, letting cool, fresh air and an abundance of sunshine inside.  “You’re in our guest room,” she supplied, both in response to his confused expression or his earlier question.  He turned back to her.  She was very pretty, pale and probably his age.  A few laugh lines around her lips and eyes appeared when she smiled tenderly.  “I’m Laura Mitchell.  This is my house.  Clarkston, Nebraska, though I hope you know at least that much.  You’ve been kind of out of it.”

That was distressing, but feeling worried about it was too much effort.  “How… how long?”

She looked a tad reluctant to answer.  “You’ve been here for almost two days.”

 _Two days._   _Two days!_

Steve was probably dead.  _Dead._   He’d failed him.  He’d failed Natasha.  He couldn’t hold in a miserable groan, equal parts grief and frustration.  She saw the tension ripple through him as he tried to move.  “Hey, take it easy.  You’re still in pretty bad shape.  You lost a lot of blood.”

He knew he was.  He’d been injured enough in the past to recognize the signs of hypovolemic shock.  He looked down the length of his body, taking stock of himself for the first time since waking up, and didn’t like what he saw.  It was too much to take in.  There were bandages everywhere, particularly thick around his shoulder where he’d been shot and his stomach.  This was where all the pain was originating: his midsection where the stab wound was.  It was positively humming in agony, and the white of the gauze was lined with red.  “How did you…”

“Went to nursing school before I got married and became a farmer’s wife,” she answered.  “Lucky for you.  I stitched you up as best I could.  Wrapped everything up.  Got you to drink some electrolytes.”  He vaguely remembered that, something sickly sweet on his tongue and a gentle voice in the darkness.  She pulled the blankets that had fallen down up to cover his chest once more.  “Prayed a little.  You took a promising turn last night.  I was about to call the cops.”

He closed his eyes and licked his lips.  “Why didn’t you?”

She returned the water bottle to his mouth so he could drink more.  “Because you asked me not to.  And because my son recognized you.”

“Your…”

She smiled feebly.  “He’s a big fan of the Avengers.”

So much for keeping that hidden.  But, then again, if this woman and her family discovering who he was had kept him here rather than in a hospital under police guard, maybe it was a good thing.  There was a hazy flash of it all, of him falling down on her porch, of him begging her not to call the authorities before he’d lost consciousness.  For whatever reason, she’d abided by his wishes.  “Should I call you Mr. Barton?  Agent Barton?  Hawkeye?”  She said that one almost teasingly.

Clint tried to smile.  “Clint.  Clint’s fine.”

“Well, then, Clint,” she said, grinning softly.  The woman – _Laura_ – seemed to falter a moment.  With worry, he realized.  “Let me ask you again now that you’re awake: do you want me to call someone?  Your phone was broken.”  A jab of disquiet went through him, but it was one more thing on to which he couldn’t hold.  “I would have tried to get in touch with your teammates if I could, but as it was…  I can have an ambulance here in an half an hour.  I still have friends at Saint Elizabeth’s in Lincoln.”

“No,” he said quickly.  She seemed even more worried, dismayed.  “No.  It’s not safe.”  She obviously had questions, questions about what had happened, about who had done this to him.  Thankfully, she didn’t ask them, because he wouldn’t have answered and he didn’t want to be put in the position of lying or seeming at all ungrateful for what she’d done for him.  For the risk she’d unknowingly taken.  Even if Duquesne was dead (somehow Clint doubted that), HYDRA was probably still after him.  She and her family had been unfortunately put in the middle of this.  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.  His eyes burned, guilt burning through him.  These people didn’t deserve this.  He’d caused her grief and trouble.  She’d saved his life, and that had likely been a harrowing experience.  And all of his guilt for failing Steve and Natasha came back, heavy and brutal.  The pain came with it.  “I’m so sorry.  I’ll…  I’ll get up.  Get out of here.  It’s not safe.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.  You can’t go anywhere right now.  I don’t know what happened, what brought you here or who did this to you, but I know that.  So take it easy.  It’s alright.”  Laura’s hand closed over his.  Comfortingly her thumb swept over his bruised knuckles.  “Right now, just focus on getting better.  Whatever it is, you can deal with it after you’re better.  I can take care of you.”  She smiled, her own eyes dark and maybe a little wet.  “I got you this far, right?”

He grunted a chuckle.  “You’re a warrior woman.”

She laughed, too.  “I don’t know about that.  But it’s not every day an Avenger passes out at your front door.  With a sword, no less.”  _Sword?_   Duquesne’s, he remembered.  It took some effort to look around, but he saw it.  It was wrapped up in a blanket and propped against the wall by the window.  He got a better look at the hilt.  Japanese.  Jacques had always had a special affinity for katana.  It was a modern one, deadly sharp.  “I’m not sure I want to know why or where it came from.”

He wanted to answer anyway, but she hushed him before he tried.  Her hand felt so good on his.  “Why don’t you sleep some more?  We can talk when you wake up about how you want to handle this.  If you want me to get in touch with your team somehow.”  He didn’t know.  He honestly didn’t.  His breath hitched, and the pain came back harsher.  Her other hand went to his forehead, cool and comforting.  She brushed his hair back from his brow.  “Whatever happened…  You’re safe here.”

 _Safe._   She’d said that again.  _Safe._ He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that.  He couldn’t remember the last time someone had _told_ him that.  And maybe it wasn’t true, but he fell asleep _feeling_ that for the first time in ages.  _Safe._

* * *

Natasha put Steve’s wedding ring on the chain with his dog tags.  It was around her neck now, resting atop the gray sweater she wore.  These things – all she had of him right now – were right over her heart, and she found herself reaching for them constantly, their weight comforting in her hand.  Of course, the twins were quick to remind her that that wasn’t _all_ she had of him.  Their little movements _hurt_ , and not just because they were so strong thanks to him and the serum.  She stood in the room with the cryostasis equipment, trying once again to breathe through a kick to the top of her womb that had started a contraction.  The cryostasis capsule blurred as tears filled her eyes.  She couldn’t stop the small gasp from bursting from her lips, even as she bit down on them hard.

“You alright?”  That was Tony.  The inventor was on the ground near some sort of pipes that ran from the wall to the pod.  He had a toolbox open, various implements spread out around him.  His rush install of the cryostasis equipment had been adequate, but he’d been spending some time in the day or so since then bettering the monitoring systems and the power regulators.  Now he was peeking out from underneath his work.  Natasha tried to nod, but she couldn’t quite manage it.  This was a bad one.  She wrapped her arms around the swell of her stomach.  Distantly she heard Tony scrambling to his feet.  “Here.  Sit.”  He pulled a rolling chair over.  She let him guide her down onto it.  He lingered, standing beside her, watching worriedly as she breathed through the pain.  It faded (they always did) and after it became a waiting game to see if another followed.

Thankfully, none did.  Once she got her breathing under control, she nodded, brushing his hands away.  “I’m okay,” she assured.  He wasn’t convinced.  He slid his work gloves off, dropping them onto the table of tools and equipment that was beside them.  He was observing her every movement.  Prickled by that, she managed a glare.  “I’m fine, Stark.”

He still wasn’t convinced, disappearing a moment to the anteroom with the control panels only to return with a bottle of water.  He handed it to her, and she took it, screwing off the top before taking a sip.  “You need to rest,” he advised.  “There’s no reason you need to be in here all the time.  I understood it before, but he’s down deep.  He doesn’t even know you’re here.”

That hurt, even though she knew it was absolutely true.  Natasha glanced up at the monitors affixed around the room.  They were displaying all sorts of information she’d learned to read over the last day.  The health of the cryostasis equipment.  The flow of power and fluids.  The state of the temperature inside the pod.  Steve’s vitals, of course.  They were steady.  His heartbeat had drastically slowed.   His blood pressure was low but strong.  His rate of respiration had been reduced to something barely enough to sustain his life.  His body temperature…  She didn’t know what was worse.  Well, logically she did.  This was far safer, far _healthier_ in a sense, than the burning fever that had consumed and destroyed him.  But seeing him frozen alive…  The look on his face.  The window of the pod had long frosted over.  She’d stood at it for hours over the last day or so, staring down into the white sheen.  There was a video feed from inside the pod, at least, so she could see him.  He was asleep.  Deeply.  He wasn’t even dreaming, if JARVIS’ scanners were accurate.  He wasn’t in pain.  His face was peaceful now, but she knew she’d never forget how it had looked when he’d struggled, the terror in his eyes, how he’d screamed and begged.  She’d heard that as muffled as it had been, heard it for an eternity it seemed until the cold had finally taken him down into unconsciousness.  Bruce had assured her that he was not in physical distress, but that hadn’t meant much.  It was another awful memory to pile on top of the mountain of them.

Since then, she’d spent a lot of time with Tony.  They hadn’t talked much.  Bruce was in and out, sometimes Betty with him, and the three scientists had worked on their calculations to step Steve down into cryostasis.  They were doing it in phases, gradually bringing his body (and the serum) through the process to avoid compounding the damage he’d already sustained with shock.  Steve wasn’t quite where Bruce wanted him to be yet; he apparently had some way of detecting Steve’s metabolic rate, and it wasn’t slow enough to prevent the virus from continuing its attack.  Another six hours, he thought.  And they were working on their cure, hesitantly hopeful that they were making good progress.  Still, there was no indication about how long Steve would need to remain as he was.  There was hope, but hope was only so much.  She’d left for a time when the quiet had gotten to her.  She’d gone back to their suite and showered and slept for a bit.  She’d woken up alone and hurting, and the quiet had been just as bad.  So here she was, in this room with Tony for hours on end, watching Steve’s vitals, watching his sleeping, serene face, holding his dog tags and wedding rings and imploring their babies to stay inside her because the thought of them being born with Steve like this was unbearable.  When he’d been awake and suffering, that had somehow been a distraction from just how close labor was.  Now…

She took another sip of water.  “I know,” she said softly.

Tony didn’t argue further.  His face crumpled.  All the anger and the arrogance was gone from it, so far gone, in fact, that Natasha was having a difficult time remembering what it had looked like.  He nodded and picked up his gloves and tools.  “Anything I can get you?” he asked after another moment.  “I’ll order pizza.  Or anything.  Anything you want.  JARVIS can get us anything, right, J?”

“Of course,” JARVIS answered.

Natasha wanted to smile, but she couldn’t force it.  “I’m not hungry.”

“You sure?  You, uh…  You want some ice cream?  Pregnant women like ice cream, don’t they?”  Tony winced like he was afraid of her response to that.

Maybe a few days ago, she would have been sharp with him.  Now she only sighed.  “I swore to myself I wouldn’t,” she admitted.  She swept her hands over the roundness of her stomach.  It was huge, when she looked at it now.  She sighed again, fighting to keep a sob contained.  “I swore to myself I wasn’t going to do all of it.  Get big.  Wear maternity clothes.  Buy baby stuff.  Eat ice cream.  Now I think I’d give anything to be able to do all that stuff that seemed so horrible.  A few days ago we were looking at houses.”

“I know,” he lamented softly.

“I think I’d give anything to go back to that.”  They were silent for a long moment, awkward, tense, and rife with unspoken misery.  She sniffled.  “Steve found some place that has really good homemade chocolate ice cream.  Really good.  And they’re open twenty-four hours.”  Tony laughed at that.  Natasha looked up, surprised, and found him watching her with eyes that had clearly gotten misty.  She finally smiled, too, in spite of herself.  “I didn’t even really like ice cream before.”

“Hey, JARVIS, you know where the Cap went?”

The AI somehow sounded sunny when he replied.  “Indeed I do, sir.  It is a little ice cream shop on the corner of 48th and Lexington.”

That was a heck of a hike for a craving.  But, then, that was Steve.  “Pay them whatever they want to have them bring some ice cream here,” Tony commanded.

“Yes, sir.”

“Chocolate.  And see if they have some pistachio.  And strawberry.”  Tony crouched at the pipes again.  “Got to have some before Pepper comes back tonight.  She’s allergic.”

The silence loomed again, threatening to stomp their meager conversation to death.  Natasha didn’t let it.  “Steve doesn’t like ice cream.”  Tony seemed surprised, glancing at her again before going back to work.  She shrugged.  “He eats it, but only because he doesn’t like seeing stuff go to waste.  He’s a stickler for that.  Guess it makes sense.”

“At least he has an excuse, growing up when he did.”  Tony lay down on his back beneath the pipes once more.  “Pepper just likes being frugal to annoy me.”

Natasha smiled again and looked down at the water bottle.  A few more slow, deep breaths had her feeling calm.  She watched Tony, watched him work, and suddenly the things that had been festering inside her the last few hours were too hard to hold back.  “Tony,” she called.  He stopped clanking around with his tools and looked at her once more.  It was hard to say what she wanted to say.  She knew it needed to be said, and she was _ready_ to say it, but still it was tough, grating on her pride.  Still, this was one source of anguish that she could control.  Steve had taught her a lot about being open, about taking responsibility, about being a good person.  So she had to do this.  “I’m sorry.  About what I said yesterday.  I…  I had no right to accuse you of things I did.  I was…”  God, this was hard.  She could practically hear Steve’s voice in her thoughts, though.  _You can do it, love.  You know you can._   “I was hurt and scared.  I was so angry.  I still am about what happened.  But you don’t deserve me taking it out on you.”

Tony was obviously shocked into silence.  She looked down at her hands, at her wedding rings glinting in the light.  “I heard someone say once that you shouldn’t throw stones if you live in a glass house.  I…  I think in some ways and no matter what Steve says or what I do, I’m never going to get the blood washed off my hands, especially not his.  And he tells me what happened…”  Her voice cracked.  Hormones and stress and so much misery.  “That what I did to him in Russia wasn’t my fault.  And maybe it wasn’t.  My brain knows that.  But there’s nothing that will ever entirely convince my heart.  I worry, Tony.  I worry I’m never going to be worthy of this.”  Stark looked patently uncomfortable, but he didn’t say anything.  She drew a shuddering breath.  “Anyway, I just wanted to apologize.  I know it was an accident.  I know what… what happened in London could have happened anywhere and because of anything.  I know you aren’t to blame.” She blew out another breath.  “Whatever you feel about Steve…  That’s your business.  I don’t know how you feel.”

“Well, you’re not the only one.  _I_ don’t know how I feel,” Tony replied softly.  He set his tools down, not in frustration but in weary acceptance.  “You want to know the truth, Red?  I don’t know why I have such a hard time not being a complete ass to the people I care about.  You think you’re the only one who’s hurt someone you love?  I treated Pepper like crap for _years_ before I realized what I was doing to her.  I had to almost _lose_ her before I realized I had to be a better man.”

“I know what that’s like,” Natasha said, wiping at her eyes.

Tony grunted.  “Seems like you and I have more in common than we thought.”

Natasha couldn’t help her little grin.  “Seems like it.”

They were quiet for a moment.  Tony sniffed again, a telltale sign of one struggling to stay composed.  “Even… even if you say it’s not my fault, it is.  There’s no reason good enough for what I did.  And I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry you had…”  His voice cracked.  “I’m sorry this happened.  That you had to watch…”  He couldn’t finish, tipping exhausted eyes to the ceiling.  “Jesus.”

“It’s alright.”  She hadn’t really thought to say that, to assuage his pain, but she did.  “It’s alright.  He’s going to be alright.  He’s…”  Natasha stood from the chair and walked over to the capsule.  It was hard to touch it.  It was cold, icy to her fingertips.  She didn’t know if it was her imagination or not, but the whole room felt cold.  “He’s not in pain, right?”

Tony wiped his face and got down onto his back to work again.  “No.  No, he’s alright.”

“And as long as he’s in there, the virus can’t hurt him.  He can’t get worse.”

“Yep.”

“Then it’s going to be okay.”

“I hope so.”

This wasn’t who either of them was.  Not optimistic.  No faith.  Cynical and smart and flourishing in grays.  But it was what they needed, so they embraced it.  Natasha let her hand slide off the cryostasis capsule.  The twins twisted inside her, like they _knew_ they were close to their father.  _It’s alright.  He’s going to be alright.  This is working._

The door to the room opened, and Maria came inside.  As usual, she had a couple of pads.  Her blue eyes darted to the monitors displaying Steve’s status.  “How is he?”

“Stable,” Tony replied quickly.  “Everything’s going great.”  He managed a smile.  It was strained and filled with grief, but it was more genuine than they had been of late.  “You want some ice cream?  We have some coming.”

Maria grinned compassionately in response.  “No.  Thanks, though.  Actually, I have some news.”  Natasha immediately turned at that, a spike of excitement going through her.  After the endless, monotonous emptiness of the last day, any change in _anything_ seemed welcome.  Maria immediately detected her enthusiasm and reined in her expectations with a sadder smile.  “It’s not as good as you’re hoping.”

“But it’s good,” Tony said expectantly.

Maria glanced between him and Natasha.  “I got in touch with Wilson.  They made contact with Barnes but lost him.”

Natasha’s heart leapt before she fully processed that.  _They found him._ Somehow, somewhere, they’d located Barnes in this huge world.  And he’d gotten away.  _They found him and lost him again._   The let-down from that rush of hope was torturous.  “Damn it,” Tony whispered.

Maria sighed.  “I tried to text Sam again to get more information, but there was no answer.”

“What about Clint?” Natasha asked.  She bit her tongue against her grief and guilt.  With everything that had happened here, she’d hardly thought about Clint.  Clint had left, dark and broken and suffering.  Clint had gone off to save her husband with his past haunting him, hunting him.  And she hadn’t even cared.  It was hard to think about that.

Maria shook her head.  “Nothing.  I’ve called him.  Tried texting.  JARVIS said his phone’s off.”

“Not only off,” the AI corrected.  “The emergency battery that maintains GPS functionality in the event of a power loss is non-operative.”

Tony squinted in thought.  “That means the phone’s dead.  After the Red Room assholes were able to find you guys in St. Petersberg before we could, I had that power cell put into the new StarkPhones as a failsafe to ensure location tracking,” he explained, watching Natasha.  “It wouldn’t go out unless there was massive hardware failure.”

Worry left Natasha momentarily reeling.  “So what then?”

Tony shrugged a little.  “Well, just because his phone’s dead doesn’t mean he is.”  It was meant to be a joke, but no one was laughing.

Maria handed Natasha one of her tablets.  It was showing a map of the United States.  “I was able to track Sam’s phone down to a town outside Lincoln, Nebraska.  We could send someone out there to assess what’s going on, but our options are running rather thin.”

Tony shook his head, going back to his work.  “I really should stay here.  Just in case something happens with this.  It’s up and running smoothly, but…”

“No,” Natasha agreed.  As much as she was concerned ( _what happened to Clint’s phone?  Is he okay?  Did Swordsman find them?  What the hell is in Nebraska?_ ), she knew Tony was right.  There was no one to send.  Bruce (if he would even leave) was needed here.  What was going on with Steve required Tony’s expertise, and she wasn’t willing to risk a malfunction, so he needed to stay as well.  Maria could perhaps go, but to what purpose other than finding out more information?  If they were after Barnes, they were after Barnes.  Sam wouldn’t stop until they found him; she knew that like she knew she needed air to breathe.  Furthermore, the immediacy of finding Barnes had lessened (that was true, even if her heart wasn’t so willing to accept it).  “If Sam says they’re working on it, then they’re working on it.”

Maria seemed relieved with her decision on that.  “I’ve got JARVIS tracking their location.  He’s going to keep trying to contact them, too.  On an unrelated note…  I got a call from Sharon Carter yesterday evening.”

That was surprising.  “Sharon?”

“Yes.  She was on assignment during the attack in Geneva, but when she got back to the States and saw what had happened, she contacted me wondering if there was anything she could do.  I explained the situation and asked her to pick through CIA intel for information on the Winter Soldier.  She got back to me about an hour ago.”

“And?” Tony said.  He was antsy, and with good reason.  Hill wouldn’t have brought this up if she didn’t have something useful to share.

“She has nothing on Barnes.  The CIA has no idea where he is.”  Natasha’s hopes deflated yet again.  She was getting rather tired of being crushed.  “She can, however, get us in to see Aleksander Lukin.”

That got Natasha’s heart beating faster again.  _Lukin._   The last she’d seen of the ex-Soviet general, he’d been taken into custody by federal agents in Times Squares after Barnes had spared his life.  Lukin was one of the few men who’d handled (and probably created) the Winter Soldier.  He’d had connections to HYDRA, connections to the Red Room.  Natasha hadn’t had many dealings with him during her tenure as a Red Room assassin until she’d been captured by him in St. Petersberg.  If Lukin had had his way, she would have been his prisoner now, incubating the new version of the super soldier serum.  Needless to say, she wasn’t thrilled with where she knew this was going.  And needless to say, it took some doing to stifle the shudder itching at her lower back.  She dropped her hands to the twins without thinking about it, protective, tense, and angry.  “He could know something,” Maria said softly.  “If there’s anyone in the world who knows how Barnes thinks, it’s him.  He helped program him, helped make him.  As much of a monster as he is, he might be able to help us if we pressure him.”

“We don’t have the power to offer him anything like a reduced sentence,” Tony reminded.

“No,” Maria agreed, “but he might not know that.  And Ellis is on our side.  He wants to help.  If we feel like we can get him to roll, maybe Ellis can make it happen.”  She looked squarely at Natasha.  “It’s your call, Natasha.  I don’t think it’s likely to be anything, but it might be worth a try.  They’re transporting him to Atwater this evening.  If we want to do this, we have about three hours while he’s at LaGuardia.  I was going to go if you–”

“I’ll go.”  The words were out of her mouth before she thought about it.  And she was sure.  She was damn sure.  She focused eyes that had gone blurry with thought and memory and nightmares she refused to face.  She focused on Hill and Stark and what she needed to do.  “I’ll go.”

Maria and Tony shared a shocked, concerned glance.  Tony shook his head.  “I don’t think it’s a good idea to–”

She didn’t argue.  She didn’t debate.  She grabbed Steve’s dog tags and wedding ring on the chain about her neck, stuffed them safely under her sweater so that they rested over her heart, and swiftly left the room.

* * *

The media was downstairs waiting for them, of course.  Maria called ahead and had Stark Industries security try to clear the door, but it was impossible.  Despite the President’s plea that the Avengers be left alone, there were hundreds of reporters camped out all over around the Tower, a circus scrambling over itself to get a glimpse of what was going on inside.  Maria got off the phone with Happy, practically seething beneath her veneer of control, as the elevator took them down.  “We’ll go out the garage.”

“No,” Natasha said calmly.  She was feeling strange and empowered.  She was tired of hiding, tired of running.  There was sudden energy jolting through her limbs, speeding her heart.  Some of it she knew was the serum.  But most of it was the chance to face some aspect of this bravely, even if nothing good would come of it.  That was what this was all about.  She wasn’t going to let anyone intimidate her.  If her secret was out – that she was pregnant with Steve’s children – then she’d embrace that.  There was no denying it.  And these people _were not_ going to make her feel guilty or ashamed over what Steve had given her, especially now.

Maria didn’t look that certain, but she only nodded.  “Alright.”  She got back on the phone with Hogan.  “We’re coming out the lobby.  Have the car ready.”

The rest of the ride was quiet.  It seemed to take forever yet no time at all.  Natasha drew a deep breath when the elevator dinged and opened its doors to reveal the spacious, sleek lobby of the Tower.  She didn’t even glance at Maria, betrayed no doubt whatsoever, as she lifted her chin defiantly and walked as briskly as she could manage to the glass doors.  Outside the reporters had already realized something was up.  Security had cordoned off the walkway to the curb where a black SUV was waiting for them, not unlike the one Happy had used to take Steve and Natasha house-hunting.  That pleasant, sweet memory seemed ages old and impossible to reclaim, and it made her angrier.  She hadn’t been lying to Tony.  She’d give _anything_ to go back to that, to the simple worries of childbirth, of getting ready, of being a mother.  She’d give anything, but there was no way.

Hogan was waiting for them.  He and a few other security personnel pulled open the doors for them.  Immediately as she crossed the threshold, cameras were flashing, catching pictures.  People were yelling, shouting questions and comments.  Happy took her arm gently and tucked her slight form against him, protecting her body with his as he ushered her through the crowd.  Maria followed, ardently yelling, “No comment!”  Natasha’s heart pounded, and she was caught between the need to hide and the need to stand up for herself and her family.  This was rude and ridiculous, worse than the public flogging she’d endured at in front of Congress after SHIELD had fallen, and she’d never felt more enraged.

Happy pulled open the front passenger door.  “Get in,” he ordered gently, keeping himself between her and the press.

The barrage of questions was deafening.  “Agent Romanoff, where’s Captain America?”

“Is he alright?  Do you have any comments about his condition?”

“Did you take the Cap’s last name?”

“When did you find out you were pregnant?”

“Is Captain Rogers the father?  What does that mean for the super soldier serum?”

“Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

“Any ideas on names?”

“Did you and Captain Rogers plan this?  Were you pregnant when you were spotted in Times Squares?  How can you justify doing something like that?”

“How are you planning on raising a baby given you’re both Avengers?  Don’t you feel you’re needlessly endangering this child?”

That was enough.  She pushed Hogan away and turned around.  “Needlessly endangering our child,” she repeated, glaring into the crowd.  “Our children.”  The twins moved restlessly inside her, so she lowered her voice and took a deeper breath.  “How can you accuse me of that?  How dare you do that?  You don’t know me.  You don’t even know him.  This wasn’t what either of us planned.  It happened, and we went through–”  She dragged in another ragged breath, pushing all the memories away.  “We went through a lot to get to where we are now.  And now I stand the chance of losing everything.  Don’t tell me what’s been endangered.  You have no idea.”

The crowd went abruptly silent.  Perhaps she should have left it at that, with those words ringing in the quiet, quivering with anguish.  But she didn’t.  She was Captain America’s wife, and she knew Steve wouldn’t have been harsh or judgmental.  He wouldn’t lash out because he himself was hurting.  “You want answers?  You want pictures?  Then take them.  Here I am.  I’m pregnant.  I’m married.  I’ve done terrible things and I’ve done good.  I’m an Avenger,” she went on.  “And so is he.  We all are.  And what we do has consequences, as much for the world as it does for ourselves.  I’m standing here, eight months pregnant, and the father of my children and the… the man I love is hurt and needs help.  All of you who have ever stayed behind while your wives or husbands have left to risk their lives to protect people know what that’s like.  How much it hurts you.  How much it drives you mad with helplessness.  How much it kills you inside.  I wasn’t prepared for it, but I understand now what it means to sacrifice.  And I understand how important it is that that sacrifices be made, for our sakes and for the sake of everyone on this planet so that we all can live free.  Captain Rogers taught me that.  He is and always has been the first one out into battle to protect people and the last one off the field when everyone is safe.  He taught me how important that is.  He taught me that sometimes the cause is bigger than any or all of us.  He taught me, taught _all of us_ , how to be heroes.  And it’s not because he’s Captain America.  It’s because he’s Steve Rogers, and he believes in the best of us.  He believes that people are good and worthy and that peace is worth fighting for.  He believes that the Avengers are a response team meant to safeguard, not strike.  A shield and not a sword.  I said before that the world’s a vulnerable place, and now more than ever we’re the best qualified to defend it.  If you want to judge that or disparage that, I can’t stop you.  But please remember what’s been sacrificed for your freedom.”

She said nothing more, ducking inside the car before the pain welled up in her throat and cracked her voice.  The cameras weren’t flashing anymore, and the crowd wasn’t pushing to get access to her.  Everything was eerily silent as Maria came around and slid into the driver’s seat.  Natasha choked back a sob, rubbing her hands over her belly, angry and frightened and so damn overwhelmed with what she’d just done.  The weight of it all threatened to crush her, but when Maria softly asked if she was ready, she got a deep, cleansing breath into her lungs and nodded.  It felt a little bit like walking through fire.  That was comforting, even if the solace didn’t last and didn’t feel quite genuine.

* * *

They were silent as Maria drove them to the airport.  Natasha pulled herself together without aid, and though the quiet was tense, it wasn’t uncomfortable.  They made it almost the entire way there before Maria spoke.  “I don’t know him as well as you do, but I think Cap would’ve–”

“Don’t,” Natasha warned quietly.  “Please.”

Maria glanced at her before exhaling slowly.  “Are you sure you want to do this?  I can handle this guy.”

Natasha sighed again.  “That’s not why.”  Her decision was absolutely no reflection on Hill’s expertise as a spy, and they both knew that.

As cool and stoic as Maria always was, she cared.  She’d run SHIELD with an iron fist under Fury’s direction, but she’d done that because she, too, believed in protecting people.  She fundamentally held that dear.  Therefore, taking an eight-month pregnant, emotionally compromised ex-assassin to confront a demon from said assassin’s dark and violent past after all she’d just been through didn’t sit well with her principles.  “It’s not likely this is going to pan out.”

Natasha looked out the window at the approaching airport.  The traffic was thick, the evening lights bright around them.  She saw the terminal, and her pulse raced faster.  This was foolish.  She might have been exhausted and pained, but she knew that.  “He might know things.  Safe houses.  Protocols.”

Maria didn’t argue with that.  “You don’t need to be involved.”

“I know him better than you.”  Maria’s sideways glance spoke volumes of how convinced she was of that.  Natasha gritted her teeth and glared out at the peaceful evening.  She couldn’t lie even to herself.  This wasn’t just about getting information.  It was about Lukin creating Barnes, Lukin working with Brushov, Lukin creating the scenario that had led to her sleeping with the Winter Soldier one night a decade ago.  It was about Lukin capturing her, taking her and taking Steve.  It was about the hours she’d been their prisoner, about what they’d wanted to do to her and to the man she loved.  It was about Lukin’s monsters, _both_ of them, sent to destroy Captain America and Black Widow.  She couldn’t quite believe the sudden twist in this awful story, that it had come back to things she’d tried to leave behind, but they were here.  She wasn’t going to sit back and let this man have power over her future again.  “I have to.”

Hill said nothing further.  Natasha knew her well enough to see that she still wasn’t pleased, but the ex-Deputy Director respected her enough not to press it.  The silence returned as they drove into the parking area.  Security was waiting for them, and when Hill announced her name and who she was seeing, they let them through to the restricted areas of the airport.

Sharon was there.  She was dressed in a nice pants suit, gray with a light pink blouse.  Her wavy, honeyed hair was gathered into a bun, and her make-up was youthful and very clean looking.  Natasha thought she was strikingly beautiful and very professional.  The last time she’d seen her had been maybe a month ago, and she seemed so different.  As Maria and Natasha got out of the SUV, she came closer, and her face fractured in dismay.  “Natasha.  Maria.  Hi.”

Maria nodded.  “Sharon.”

Sharon grasped Natasha’s shoulder.  It didn’t matter that her relationship with Clint had fallen apart.  Sharon was a good person, strong and reliable.  Trustworthy.  She’d saved Steve’s life when the STRIKE Team had taken him captive.  She’d been there to help them when they’d needed it.  And now she was again.  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, tugging Natasha into something of a hug.  It was difficult, both with the awkwardness of the situation and the bulge of Natasha’s midsection.

Natasha used her anger, her determination, to keep her emotions under check.  She’d told that crowd she was pregnant and married.  That she was Captain America’s wife.  However, she was _still_ Black Widow, too.  “He’s not dead,” she replied evenly, her face stoic.  Every breath she took reaffirmed her on this path.  “He’s not going to die.  I’m here to stop it.”

Sharon didn’t do her the dishonor of appearing doubtful, but Natasha saw through it.  The CIA agent nodded and led the two women into the airport.  “We need to move fast,” she explained.  This was a secure area, far from the hustle and bustle of the main terminal and all of its travelers.  “The Justice Department has indictments against him a mile long.  There’s been something of a fight over jurisdiction between California and New York.  They want him in LA to answer for the insanity serum they found in the warehouses out there.”

Natasha didn’t care.  Hill and Carter talked lowly about Lukin and his case, but she wasn’t listening.  She was feeling the weight of the twins, the weight of Steve’s dog tags, the weight of his wedding band.  The weight of what she needed to do.  It didn’t matter that this would likely lead to nothing.  It was a longshot, like so much else about Steve’s condition.  That Lukin would, first, know anything useful and, second, be willing to cooperate.  And she knew this was the culmination of three days (four _months_ ) of helpless frustration.  Of standing and watching Steve leave her and fight and get hurt.  Lukin was something from Black Widow’s dark past, and that meant this was something she could handle.

Carter led them deeper into LaGuardia toward the security offices.  Lukin was there, being held in a detainment.  The cell was down a tiled hallway, and there were federal officers and agents outside as well as an armed escort.  Carter flashed a badge at them, and they were permitted to pass.  Outside the heavy door to the room, Sharon paused.  “Ready?”

Natasha didn’t appreciate the treatment.  She was still the best there was at making a suspect sing.  Just because she was pregnant didn’t change that, didn’t change a lifetime spent as a spy and assassin and all the experience she had gained.  She knew what she was doing.  Carter opened the door, and they went in.

Inside the room, Lukin looked the same as he had four months ago.  His goatee was a little less well-kept, and his hair wasn’t as perfectly slicked back.  There was more white gathered on his temples, she thought, and more anger to his dark eyes.  Though Natasha had changed before coming here, doing her best to appear as beautiful and deadly as ever, there was simply no denying how pregnant she was.  “Black Widow,” Lukin greeted.  He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit that said DOJ on the back.  His hands were cuffed in front of him where they rested on the table at which he was sitting.  Still, he seemed so dangerous.  “My, my.  Heavy with child is a… surprisingly poignant look on you.”

Maria and Sharon followed her inside, the latter closing the door behind her.  She stood near it, arms folded across her chest.  Maria came to Natasha’s side.  Neither woman did anything to hide that she was armed.  Natasha wished they wouldn’t be so protective of her, but she supposed it was warranted.  Still, she didn’t need their protection.  And she wasn’t going to let this man goad her.  “I want information about the Winter Soldier.  HYDRA safe house locations.  Triggers.  Latent programming and commands.  Anything you can tell us.”

Lukin was too smart to simply cooperate, though he did look surprised.  “Why?”

It occurred to her that Lukin might not know Steve had collapsed.  If that was the case, she certainly wasn’t going to feed him any information he could use against them.  Maria seemed to come to the same conclusion.  “That doesn’t concern you,” she replied evenly.

“Must be something truly important,” Lukin said, ignoring Hill to stare at Natasha, “to bring you out of hiding when you’re this vulnerable.”

Natasha had had it.  She was across the table in a blink, snatching Lukin by the hair and slamming his face down.  It hit the metal surface with a bang.  She shoved him away, exhilarated by the _power_ and revolted at the pleasure she found in seeing the blood running from his nose.  Sharon stood more guardedly in front of the door, a little surprised by what she’d done but not about to let the federal agents outside interfere.  “Tell us about the Winter Soldier,” Natasha hissed again, lowly and dangerously.

Lukin was completely uncaring that his nose was practically broken and gushing.  “Why?” he asked again.

“We need to find him,” Sharon said crossly.  “You cooperate with us now, we might be able to persuade one of the federal prosecutors to–”

“To what?” Lukin said with a gruff laugh.  “Reduce my sentence?  Show me some mercy?  You Americans.  You think you frighten me?  You think I fear what lies in wait for me in a prison here?  I don’t.  I never will.  There’s no reason for me to help you, even if I could.”

“You made him,” Natasha seethed.  “You made the Winter Soldier.  You were the one who taught him, trained him to think like he does.”

“Those are gentler words than what I would have used,” Lukin said coldly.  “The sort of… conditioning Yuri applied to you was but a fraction of what I did to him.  I have told you that, and you still don’t understand.  To wipe a man of who he was, what he was…  That is true power.  Even you retained some shade of the girl you’d been before Yuri took you.  Him?  He is nothing and no one.  And even if the programming erodes without maintenance, he will stay that: nothing and no one.”

Maria’s jaw tightened.  “That doesn’t answer our question.”

Lukin didn’t even glance at her.  In fact, since they’d come into the room, he’d had eyes only for Natasha.  Cold, cruel eyes.  “You have not answered mine,” he reminded.  “Why do you want to find him?”  Natasha glared at him.  There was absolutely _no way_ she was going to let this monster know that Steve was dying.  She wasn’t going to give him the power that provided, wasn’t going to let him hurt her with that knowledge.  Her silence, though, was telling.  “The Asset was more than instrumental in nearly destroying your world.  Project: Insight was almost launched because of his efforts.  He tortured Rogers.  He shot you.  There has to be a very compelling reason you’d want him.”

“Where is he?” Natasha said sternly.  “Where would he go?  If his programming was degrading as you said, where would he go for help?”

“Help?”  Lukin practically spat the word.  “In case you’re forgetting, the Winter Soldier hasn’t been mine to command in quite some time.  I don’t know.”

Natasha wanted to scream.  Her eyes narrowed as the anger and hatred burned through her.  “I need a minute alone with him,” she declared.  She could feel Hill and Carter share a concerned glance; they weren’t doing a good job at hiding how much they didn’t want to do that.  Natasha ground her teeth together harder, willing them to leave.  After another long, tense moment, they did.

Now it was only the two of them.  She had this man, this man who’d been instrumental in so much of her pain, in Steve’s pain, at her mercy.  She wanted to destroy him.  All of this pent-up rage and frustration, all of the pain she’d felt watching Steve suffer…  She wanted to let that go.  Vent it.  _Hurt_ him until he told her whatever he knew.  “Is this supposed to intimidate me?” Lukin asked.  His eyes went to the prominent bulge of Natasha’s stomach.  “It is not working.”

 She was across the table again in a flash, and the gun she’d tucked into the waistband of her pants back at the Tower came loose.  This was the first time in _months_ she’d held one.  She’d never gone that long in her life without handling a gun.  It felt… wrong but so right at the same time.  This whole thing was wrong.  Steve wouldn’t want it.  Steve wouldn’t want her _compromising_ herself like this, endangering their children, exposing them to violence.  He wouldn’t want that, even if it might save his life.  But it felt good to have Lukin by the hair, too, felt good to have that gun right in his face.  Felt good to practically stab it under his chin.  “Intimidated now?”

There was a flash of fear in Lukin’s eyes.  She saw it, reveled in it.  “Did he send you?” he asked.  “Captain America?  Did he send you to find a way to get him back?”

“No,” Natasha seethed.  “Where are the safe houses in the US?”

“Or is it because _you_ care about him?”  Natasha moved away in surprise, letting Lukin’s hair go and stepping back.  This was all a game, and she _knew_ it.  Still, she was playing into it.  She couldn’t stop herself.  And she couldn’t contain her horror.  Lukin smiled, hideous through the blood coming down his face.  “Oh, come now.  Did you honestly think that Yuri and I wouldn’t wonder why you both walked away from a mission where we each ordered you to kill one another?”

As much as she despised that night, this felt like an invasion of the worst sort.  Everything about what she’d shared with Barnes had been grounded in defiance, in standing up against what they’d been made to be, in _taking_ what they’d _wanted_.  To hear that that hadn’t been a secret, that Lukin or Brushov or both had known about the night they’d slept together…  That they’d maybe even let it happen.  “The Winter Soldier had no capacity to feel love.  He had no capacity to feel even lust.  He could only obey me.  Somehow you pierced through that, found the man beneath the machine.”  Lukin was impassive, uncaring.  “Do you know what I did to him for that one moment of pleasure you selfishly took?  I made him tell me, confess like a terrified child in front of an angry parent, and then I let my men have at him.  After that, when there was barely anything left, I wiped him clean.  I scrubbed his brain _raw_ , until he couldn’t remember how to walk or talk.  Until he couldn’t remember pleasure at all, let alone the pleasure you gave him.”  Natasha reeled away in revulsion.  “Was it worth it?”

She could hardly breathe.  “You’re a monster.”

Lukin smiled.  “More to the point, as you stand here about ready to give birth to Captain America’s brat…  Does he know, Black Widow?  Does he know about your indiscretion with his best friend?”

She jabbed her teeth into lower lip to stop its trembling.  It took her a beat to regain her composure.  “He knows.”

“The irony of it.  None of us could have planned something so exquisitely painful.”

 _No._ “He doesn’t care.”

“But you do.  And I’m willing to bet if you ever find your dear Sergeant Barnes, he might, too.”

The urge to aim her gun at him again, to pull the trigger and _end_ him, was almost too much.  This was pure taunting, pure viciousness.  He had nothing to offer her, and if she was smart, she’d leave _now._   But she couldn’t.  She couldn’t walk away with nothing when Steve was dying.  “Tell me how I can find him.  I know you know.”

Lukin eyed her coolly.  He was flourishing in this, in this moment where he somehow had all the power despite being under armed guard, being handcuffed, and having a gun shoved into his face.  This was what she’d wanted to avoid, and she’d staggered right into it.  Desperation and panic and so much love for Steve had driven her.  _He’s not going to die.  I’ll stop it._

But there was nothing she could do.  “I already told you.  He hasn’t been in my control for years, and even if I did know, I would take it to my grave.  You know me, Black Widow.  You call me a monster, but I’m only a man.  And I have no interest in helping my enemies, no matter how enticing you might make it.”

“You’re a sick son of a bitch,” she snarled.  “You don’t control a man for decades without something to show for it.  _Tell me how to find him!_ ”

Lukin was up and out of his chair.  The noise gathered the attention of those outside, and Hill and Carter were quick to return.  But Lukin wasn’t attacking.  He was staring at Natasha, staring her down not unlike how Brushov used to.  “What you want to know?  What do you think you want to know?  The truth?”  He sneered.  Such unmasked contempt was unusual for him and all the more disturbing because of it.  “You don’t know what you are.  Who you are.”

“I know who I am,” she insisted confidently even though she felt completely unnerved.  “I know.”

“Captain America’s wife?  The mother of his legacy?”  Lukin grunted a laugh.  “Never.  You’ve told yourself the most convincing lie of all.  You will never be more than the murderer we made you be.  Your children will never see you as anything other than that.  And they’ll _hate_ you for it.”

Natasha felt the blood drain from her face.  Suddenly she couldn’t breathe.  She didn’t even have a chance to think let alone act before Maria took her arm and gently snatched the gun from her hand.  “This is over,” she said sternly.  “You can rot in a cell, General.  That’s your legacy.”

There was the hustle of men coming in as Maria pulled her away.  The next thing she knew she was out in the hallway being guided down it.  She couldn’t think.  She couldn’t speak.  She couldn’t breathe.  Maria’s grip on her arm was tight, Sharon loud behind them as she argued with the federal agents, but everything was growing dim, hazy, distant like it was stretched and pulled far away from her.  She wanted to crumple under the stress, under the mistakes, under _everything._   “What the hell were you thinking, Romanoff?” Maria demanded sharply.  “Damn it, that wasn’t smart!  You should have known better.  _I_ should have known better!  So goddamn stupid to let him…  Natasha?”

The pain came swift and sudden.  For a second, it felt like a cramp deep inside her before exploding up her back.  She tipped, wrapping her arms around her midsection.  The wall was firm to her left, supporting her because her body was going limp with shock.  _No._   Her eyes went wide as she breathed through the contraction.  It was harsh, unrelenting.  Different from the others.  Those had started at the top of her womb and gone down.  These…  This was serious.  _No._   After a moment, it faded, and she whimpered down the slide of relief.  She was reeling with that, barely capable of anything.  Waiting.  That would be it.  That _had_ to be it.

Maria was right at her side, watching her with wide, worried eyes.  “Natasha?  Natasha, are you alright?”

But another contraction came right on the tail of the first.  Hard and harsh.  Her entire body felt like it was twisting, tightening, a heated, throbbing ache that was undeniable no matter how hard she tried to deny.  She groaned through gritted teeth.  _No, no, no no no…  Not now.  Now when…  No!  This isn’t happening!_   “Maria,” she gasped.  Tears filled her eyes with the horrific realization that she was going into labor.  “Take me home.  Take me home right now.  I – I need…  Oh, God.  _Hurry._ ”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I relied pretty heavily on Google Translate for the Russian in this, so please correct me if you spot errors. I know it's not the best. The lullaby Natasha sings is real and called _"Bayushki-bayu"_ , but, again, if there are mistakes, don't hesitate to tell me.

It ended up being a false alarm.

Well, not entirely.

Maria had rushed her back to the Tower, practically speeding through the evening traffic with JARVIS guiding her every frantic turn to avoid getting stuck.  As Natasha had sat in the passenger seat, hand atop her stomach and hating and fearing every contraction, she’d idly wondered if Tony hadn’t hacked the NYC DOT to make the traffic lights cooperate with them because they made ridiculously good time back to the Tower.  Maria had even managed to stay away from the press and paparazzi still stubbornly gathered outside.  They’d been on the phone with Hogan and Banner almost constantly since they’d left LaGuardia, the conversation blaring through the car’s audio system.  “Breathe.  Keep breathing,” Bruce had calmly ordered after Natasha had relayed how often the contractions were coming.  _Breathe.  Breathe._   It had been every few minutes, harsh and unrelenting.  _Oh, God.  I’m not ready.  I’m not ready.  I need Steve.  I can’t do this without Steve!_

Incredibly, though, by the time they’d gotten up to the medical floor of the Tower, the contractions had already eased off.  Bruce had been down in the garage to meet them, and he’d wrapped an arm around Natasha to help her into the elevator.  Even then, as they’d climbed the height of the building, the pain had begun to lessen.  She’d felt confusion and horror and worry maul all that remained of her already frayed control, not understanding at all what was happening to her body.  She’d been too terrified to say anything.  As suddenly as they’d come, the contractions all but disappeared.

Now she was lying on one of the beds, uncertain as to whether she wanted to cry in despair or hide in shame or rail in anger, as Bruce finished with what he was doing.  He’d suggested an internal exam when she’d finally succumbed and told him the truth about how everything was better, and now he was lowering the sheet over her legs and telling her she could sit up a little.  He peeled off his latex gloves and tossed them into the trash.  “You’re about two centimeters dilated,” he announced.

She closed her thighs protectively and squirmed upward.  She knew she had no cause to be uncomfortable around him, but it was almost instinctive.  She was already feeling terribly vulnerable, worn thin and laid bare, and having anyone touch her like this was only making that worse.  _Everything_ felt like too much, painful on oversensitive skin, cruel to her brutalized heart.  “What does that mean?”  And she knew what that meant, but she needed to hear it from him.

The answer wasn’t what she wanted.  He sighed unhappily.  “I don’t know, Natasha.  You could be in early labor now.  It could be the serum in your body is trying to prolong the pregnancy to allow you to reach full term and that’s what stopped it, or it could be that it’s trying to ease the pain of it all, so maybe it’s continuing without you actively noticing.  I have no idea.  Or this could all just be plain, old false labor.  Some women walk around dilated two or three centimeters for weeks before they actually deliver.  Some go from nothing to ten centimeters in a matter of hours.  Labor is variable enough without the complication of the serum.”

“So none of this matters?”

“It matters.  Something’s happening.  Something’s _going_ to happen.  It’s inevitable.  You’re thirty-seven weeks pregnant.  The twins are ready.”  Bruce turned to the touch screens around them.  He’d put the contraction monitor around the swell of her abdomen the second she’d changed into a gown and gotten onto the bed.  She didn’t know exactly how to read the output on the screen, but she could tell what it was from her body.  The contractions had died back down to rare and moderately irritating, not as earth-shatteringly painful and regular as they’d been in the airport.  “I wish I could tell you something more, something definitive, but I can’t.  It’s not helping that you’re running yourself ragged like this – Natasha, don’t.  Lay back down!”

She wasn’t going to.  She wasn’t going to lie there uselessly and listen to this.  The fetal heart monitor jerked and made a loud, unpleasant noise as it was jostled.  It went dead as she pulled it loose.  “I know what you’re going to say.  It’s been said to me over and over again, and I won’t do it.  I won’t go to my suite filled with Steve’s clothes and Steve’s things where everything screams Steve to me and try to sleep.  I’m not staying here if I’m not in labor.  Not while Steve’s–”

“For God’s sake, Natasha, you need to _think!_ ” Bruce snapped.  His eyes were hard, his jaw clenched, and the sheer look of _rage_ on his normally placid face was enough to stop her.  She dropped her hands from her stomach and let him secure the elastic straps of the monitors again.  She was numb with fear.  “You can’t do this to yourself.  You can’t do this to the babies.  You should have never stayed at Steve’s side when there was nothing you could do for him.  You should have let Tony handle it.”  Anger burst through her.  How dare he even _suggest_ that she abandon Steve when he’d been suffering?  _How dare he?_   She was so furious, so unnerved by _everything_ of the last couple of days, that she couldn’t even think of anything to say.  She wanted to call him an asshole for being so uncaring, but she couldn’t.  She couldn’t because he _did_ care, and she knew it from all the time they’d spent together.  He cared about her health and wellbeing, and right now he saw Steve as a threat to that more than anything else.  “You need to be resting.  The stress is not good for you and not good for them.  You want to know what this means?  What it means that you’re having contractions and your cervix is dilating?  It means you’re about to have the twins.  Maybe everything settled now, but it’s happening soon.  Tonight.  Tomorrow.  In the next few days.  And it means _you_ _pushed yourself too hard._ ”  He shook his head.  “You should _never_ have gone to meet Lukin or whoever the hell it was.  You shouldn’t have put yourself in a position to be hurt.  You’ve endured a hell of a lot of trauma over the last six months.  I don’t think you even realize how much.  You can’t keep doing this to yourself.  You have a responsibility to those babies.”

“You can’t say that to me,” she hissed, unable to keep her voice steady.  Her eyes burned and the world blurred.  God, she was fucking _sick and tired_ of crying, but the tears kept coming and she couldn’t hold them back anymore.  Of its own accord, her hand went to her chest, squeezing Steve’s dog tags and wedding ring through the thin material of the hospital gown.  “I also have a responsibility to… to my husband.”

Bruce seemed to realize she was teetering on the edge because his face loosened from its scowl and his eyes filled with grief rather than anger.  He shrunk away, slumping onto the stool next to her bed, sighing heavily like he was remembering fighting and arguing solved nothing.  “I know you do,” he admitted.  “I know.  I know how much you love him.”  Her eyes flashed, the paranoid feeling of _exposure_ that had been plaguing her since meeting Lukin growing sharp and awful again.  “You don’t have to say it.  I can _see_ it, Natasha.  I’ve watched you watch him leave to fight over and over again, and I’ve seen what it does to you.  And part of me hates him for that.  I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

She didn’t know how to take that.  She didn’t want to talk about this now.  Still, his soft, solemn, _honest_ words tempered her anger.  “Bruce, it’s not his fault.  None of this is his fault.  He’s not hurting me.”

“You know why I ran away from Betty?  Why I haven’t let her near me for more than five years?”

She swallowed through a thick throat.  “Because you think you’re a danger to her.”

“I _am_ a danger to her,” he corrected.  There was a great deal of pain in his voice now.  “I almost killed her.  My very presence, with this thing inside me that I can barely control on a good day…  That places her, someone I love deeply, in _mortal_ danger.  I can’t risk her life, no matter how much I want her and she wants me.  Believe me, she’s argued and argued since I left her.  But I can’t do it.  I feel like that’s the one _good_ thing I can do; keep the people I care about away so I can’t hurt them.  Why do you think I was in India when you found me?”  He shook his head.  “There’s a war going on inside me, Natasha, every minute of every day.  A war between _him_ and me.  And I couldn’t let her be caught in the crossfire.”

Weary.  That was how he looked to her.  So weary and worn.  Fighting only because there was no option but to fight, because surrendering would mean the monster won and Bruce Banner – what he cared about and loved – would be forfeit or, worse than that, destroyed.  “It took you having to go through something like this for me to put that aside and bring Betty here.  I knew she could help, and I don’t want to see you lose something you love.”

“You’re not this danger you think you are,” Natasha said.  “You’re not, Bruce.”

“Yeah, well, I think I’ll be the judge of that.”  His eyes gained a harder glint.  He set his hand to Natasha’s stomach when she winced with another contraction.  This one wasn’t bad, and she hoped the moment of silence that came while she breathed through it would end the conversation.  But he didn’t give her mercy.  “You and Steve are just two names on a very long list of people the Other Guy has nearly killed.”  They’d been dancing around this for months, Bruce’s guilt and shame and depleted self-esteem.  Now wasn’t the time to face it.  “I’m trying to let this go.  I really am.  But it makes me so damn mad that he wasn’t smart enough to do for you what I did for her.”

She gasped, both from the pain in her body and what he was saying.  “What’re you talking about?”

“Steve’s Captain America.  He’s never _not_ going to be Captain America.  Even though he’s got the best intentions driving him, all this strength and valor and courage, it’s dangerous.  For you and the twins.  He should have walked away from it all the minute he found out you were pregnant.  He should have realized that he’s still fighting a war, too, and _you_ and this family he wants is in the crossfire.”

Hearing that… _hurt._   It hurt in ways Natasha couldn’t even describe.  It wasn’t something she and Steve had openly discussed.  There hadn’t been doubt or debate about him continuing on as Captain America.  There hadn’t even been a question.  She hadn’t considered it, too wrapped up in the uncertainties of the immediate future, but she realized now that he probably had.  And he probably thought that there was a way to make it work.  Of course, he did.  Steve was an optimist, seeing the best in every situation, knowing there was always a way to do the right thing and make everything better.  The words of their argument a few days ago echoed in her head, about how there was nowhere in the world they could go where they weren’t Captain America and Black Widow.  That was true.  This wasn’t something they could just escape.  Flip a switch and go from their lives as Avengers to their lives as parents in a house on a lake?  She wasn’t sure if Steve could see that that was impossible.  Bruce clearly was sure, though, that Steve couldn’t.  “He had a chance to back off after we stopped Omega Red.  HYDRA was down with SHIELD destroyed.  He could have walked away right then and there, handed off things to Tony and let him take over, and he didn’t.  The day after you were back from your honeymoon he was already down with Maria and Tony, making plans for the Avengers.”  He had been.  Natasha remembered it well, that he’d come in late to their appointment with Bruce, smiling and apologizing because he’d been caught up with their ideas and lost track of time.  She’d been angry that she’d been excluded.  “He’s not thinking.  How many close calls have there been over the last four months?  And now this happens.  The twins aren’t even born yet.”

She didn’t want to hear this anymore.  Maybe that was cowardly, but she couldn’t take it right now on top of everything else.  “Bruce, stop.  This isn’t your business.”

He sighed, somehow donning the expression of a physician trying to get his patient to recognize the error in her ways.  Then his face went lax again.  He took the sheet and resettled it over Natasha’s lower half.  “I know,” he agreed.  “I just…  I kept my distance from Betty because I realized it was the only way to keep her safe.  It hurt so much, but I did it.  I had to.  I only brought her here because I had to.”

“I know you did.  And I’m really grateful.  But you–”

“I saw what you said to the press before, about making sacrifices.”  She felt sick again, laying back down tiredly.  “Those sacrifices go both ways.  It’s not just you staying here all the time and telling yourself it’s okay.  Making yourself believe it.  That’s wrong, and it’s not fair to you.”

“Bruce–” 

“He’s a soldier.  They created him to protect people.  Just like you said, he’s the first into the fight and the last out until everyone is safe and the threat’s over.  I get that.  But evil doesn’t give up.  I just don’t see a future where he’s _not_ fighting a war.  And one day I’m afraid that war is going to suck him down so deep he’s not going to be able to stop.”  She didn’t know what to say to that.  Again, she wanted to brush him aside, ignore this and dismiss him and vent the harsh things he was making her feel by bringing this up.  But she couldn’t.  “I just don’t want to see you or them hurt.  That’s it.  That’s all I’m saying.  So if he gets better–”

“ _When._ ”  Her voice was terse with warning and thick with emotion.

Bruce nodded sympathetically.  “When he gets better, you need to talk to him about it.  He’ll listen to you.  Do anything for you.”  His lips curled into a rueful smile.  “I may be pissed as all hell at him for letting this happen, but I know that he loves you.  He loves you very much.”

The room was quiet for a moment, quiet save for the swish of the twins’ heartbeats on the monitors.  Natasha tried to breathe evenly.  There and again she felt the impulse to go back to her training, to tighten her heart so that she couldn’t feel.  To return to that apathy, where emotions were treated as a weakness that was contrary to her mission.  _But she couldn’t_.  She couldn’t lock herself away again.  She’d realized for some time, ever since she’d first let go and slept with Steve that night in Crimea all those months ago, that she’d opened Pandora’s Box.  There was no way to go back.  She’d denied and denied it before – _she was still Black Widow, and Black Widow was what she’d always been_ – but she couldn’t convince herself of it.  Not anymore.  The way she’d been manipulated and taunted by Lukin was evidence enough of that.  She relied on Steve so much to show her how to love, how to deal with her emotions in a noble, compassionate way, how to be a good person and do the right thing, and he wasn’t here now.  _He wasn’t here._

And she was practically in labor.

“I think you should stay here for a while.”  Bruce’s soft words were thunderous, shattering the seemingly endless silence.  “Let me monitor you and see if the contractions start up again.  That ought to help us tell if it’s early labor or a false alarm.  I’m thinking the latter, but there’s nothing to say that you moving around a lot and getting worked up won’t trigger it again.  You’re having these babies, Natasha.  That’s a fact.”  Natasha glanced at him sharply.  He took that as a sign she wanted to argue.  “Steve’s fine right now.  He’s not in any pain.  His condition is stable.  The latest readings I took from a couple of hours ago show that his metabolic processes, including his immune system, are almost shut down.  By this time tomorrow, we’ll have reached the end of the way, and he’ll be completely in cryopreservation.  I know it was traumatic to do what we did, but it’s done, and it was the best we could do for him.  There’s no reason to worry anymore.  We can keep him frozen as long as we need to.”

“As long as we need to,” she murmured, closing her eyes and hating everything about this anew.  What he was saying was good news, and she knew it.  Tony had saved Steve’s life with this plan.  Now they had all the time they needed.  “How long until you have an antiserum ready?”  Bruce was wary of answering, as if he was anticipating what she was going to say.  What she’d want to do.  “Bruce,” she prompted.

“In its earliest, least validated version?” he asked, stressing those things as detractors.  “Tonight, in all probability.  But I wouldn’t recommend throwing ourselves into this.  I’m still not sure it’s even going to work.”

“How long until you’re sure?”

“Natasha…”

“Bruce, come on.”

Bruce’s eyes hardened.  “I don’t know.  There’s no way for me to know.  It could be days.  Weeks.”

“Months?”

“What would you prefer?  That I’m sure or I’m fast?  I don’t want to make a catastrophic mistake.  I have no idea how the Hulk’s blood chemistry will interact with the super soldier serum.  This has all been guesswork, _rushed_ guesswork, on our part until this point.  I’d rather be safe than sorry, and if that means taking a week or two or more to be certain we’ve gotten this right, I think we should.  Before we had no choices.  Now we do, and I don’t want to risk Steve’s life like that.”

When he put it this way, she couldn’t argue, no matter how much she wanted to.  She knew he was right.  Of course, the implications were undeniable, with every pulse on the monitor of the twins’ heartbeats, with every ripple of her womb in preparation.  Bruce watched her sadly.  He looked pained and like he wanted to say something more, hesitating a bit as he fiddled with the monitors and equipment.  Finally he mustered up the courage to go ahead.  “Since… since I know you’re already thinking what I’m thinking, I’m just going to say this.  Normally I would prefer to let nature take its course, but I feel these are pretty exigent circumstances, and it’s not reasonable to ask you to be calm in the midst of all that’s happening.  I’m not sure of much, but I’m sure all the stress is not good for you or the twins, like I said before.  Your blood pressure’s high.  You look…”  _Horrible,_ her brain supplied of its own accord.  She knew that was true.  When she’d gone to change to meet Lukin, she’d seen how pale she was, her eyes red-rimmed and circled in darkness, her face gaunt and haggard.  “You might consider letting me induce you.”  She couldn’t process that.  Her brain was still fumbling while he went on.  “I can give you some pitocin.  It should get the contractions moving regularly.  Once I see things are progressing, we’ll break your membranes and you’ll deliver.  Or we can bypass that and try a C-section.”

She couldn’t consider that.  Her eyes glazed with exhaustion and tears, so she shut them.  She lay back on the bed.  “No.  I can’t do that.  Steve promised he’d be there.  He promised me.  He promised I wouldn’t have to do this without him.  He said he’d be with me every step of the way.”  _I can’t do this without him.  I won’t.  I need him.  I need him._   “He always keeps his promises.”

Bruce’s face broke in pain.  He was trying to combat her wish for what probably was a miracle with logic and failing.  “Natasha, there are other reasons, too,” he gently reminded.  “Your peace of mind.  And... I didn’t want to mention this, either, because I’m well aware that this probably makes me a hypocrite at best, a complete ass at the worst, but we can use the twins to save Steve.”  She turned watery, furious eyes to him.  Normally that glare would be enough to drive anyone back, but Bruce only took her cold, clammy hand from her side and held it firm.  “Before, it wasn’t an option.  I couldn’t risk the twins’ lives, not even for Steve.  But now…  Now we have time.  Once they’re born, we can use the stem cells in the umbilical cord blood to get a pure sample of the serum.  And even if that doesn’t work, we can draw blood more slowly, collect it over time.  If we can find a way to generate serum-enhanced immune cells that way…  They could save their father’s life.”

She couldn’t hear this.  She didn’t know what to say, what to think.  How to feel.  She knew – knew like she knew she loved Steve – that she couldn’t brush what he’d said aside.  She swept her hands over the twins.  She asked without thinking.  “Is there a way you can stop it?”

“Stop what?”  He knew what.

“Labor.”

Again, Bruce looked physically pained, even more so than a second before.  For a moment, Natasha anticipated another dressing-down of sorts, another cold, truthful reminder of what was at stake here.  However, what she feared didn’t come.  “I can delay it with drugs.  Maybe.  Something tells me with the serum in your blood, nothing I can do will stop labor if it’s starting.  But I can try, if that’s what you really want.”

She wanted it.  So desperately she did.  She couldn’t do this without Steve.  He was the strong one, the brave one, the one who _knew_ this was right.  Who knew she could be a mother.  Without him, without his comfort and strength and encouragement…  Suddenly the difficult choices surrounding this nightmare had wildly shifted again.  She could take the risk, try to delay her labor until Bruce finished the Hulk antiserum tonight or tomorrow, until they could try it on Steve and pray that it worked.  Or she could accept the fact that the odds of Steve being present for the birth of their children were incredibly low at this point and play it safer, keep him in cryostasis until they’d developed the best chance possible to save his life.  Whether that came from Barnes or the twins didn’t matter.  They had _time_.

She couldn’t have both, have him here with her for the twins’ arrival and have him safe.  She didn’t know which was the right choice.  And she didn’t know if she was allowed to want, allowed to even choose because his life was at stake, because she selfishly _wanted_ Steve here and she wanted to do whatever was necessary to make that happen.

God, this was a screwed up situation.  Most of all, she wanted all of this to be over.  She was tired.  _So tired._

Bruce took pity on her, making something of a decision after the silence that followed became unbearable.  “Let’s just wait and see what happens.  Like I said, I want you to stay here on the monitors for the next couple of hours so we can keep track of your contractions.  You can eat something light and drink and sleep a little if you can.  Stay quiet and see if that keeps the contractions calm, too.  Okay?  I’ll go get you some things.  Okay?”

Nothing about this was okay.  _Nothing_.

She sank into a haze for a while, refusing to let herself cry.  This – labor and delivery without Steve there – just wouldn’t happen.  If staying still and quiet would keep the contractions from coming, she’d do it.  If drinking and eating better and resting would stop them, she’d do it.  She didn’t care if it was rational.  She’d try anything.  And she wasn’t going to fall apart.  Through all the horrors she’d experienced so far, Steve seizing and burning alive with fever, Steve struggling to breathe, Steve screaming in the pod as they’d frozen him, the thought of going through labor alone, without him…  She’d been terrified of this for months, _for months_ , but she’d always known that Steve would be with her, so there’d been nothing of which to be afraid.  Now…

One of the twins moved inside her.  So strong.  Anxious.  The monitor softly thudding along to their heartbeats quickened.  She gasped a weak sob.  “ _Yeshche net,_ ” she begged.  She saw her stomach move, shifting to the left, and she tensed and rolled onto her side.  _“Pozhaluysta, podozhdite. Pozhaluysta.”_   She’d whispered to them so many times in the past.  This time felt so important.  She prayed her voice held some power, because all she could do at this point was beg and plea and wish.  _“Podozhdite vashego papu._ _On tak vas lyubit.”_   Her voice shook, even as soft as it was.  _“Pozhaluysta, podozhdite.”_

“Natasha?”

She looked up, too exhausted even to prop herself on her elbows.  Bruce was back with a tray that had some juice, water, and a sandwich.  And he wasn’t alone.  “Hi,” Pepper said with a smile.  Natasha was surprised to see her.  She’d been gone for most of this ordeal in Malibu.  “Is it okay if I come in?”

She really wasn’t in the mood for visitors, but…  Sitting here alone, waiting to see if her body would betray her, waiting this out with _no control_ …  That was completely unappealing.  “Sure.  I…”  She winced.  “No, Tony told me you were coming back.  I guess I forgot.”

Pepper smiled sadly.  “Understandable.”  She walked into the room, and now Natasha could see she had a few bags in one hand.  They were clearly gift bags, adorned with baby animals and glitter and pastel colors.  She was so shocked by that, too, that she hardly registered Pepper’s question.  “How are you?”

“False alarm,” she responded.  “I hope.”

Pepper realized what she couldn’t say, how deep that hope truly ran.  Bruce set the tray on a little rolling table beside Natasha and took it upon himself to get everything ready for her to eat.  “I ran into Pepper outside and thought you might want the company.  Get your mind off of what’s going on.”  He said this tentatively, like he was uncertain given everything about which they’d talked if she still considered him her friend.  He smiled weakly.  “If that’s okay.”  Everything he couldn’t say was clear in his comforting hand on her shoulder, in his warm eyes.  _I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have said anything.  I’m sorry you’re going through this.  It’ll be alright.  One way or another, it’ll be alright.  You’re not alone._

But the thought of _not being alone_ brought Steve’s absence, Steve’s suffering and the huge threat to his life that still remained, into sharp, real focus, and once more she was afraid she would cry.  Thankfully she noticed then that Bruce was also carrying a couple more gift bags.  Brow furrowed in confusion and dismay, she asked, “What’s all this?”

Pepper smiled disarmingly.  “What you said to the press apparently got a lot of people feeling pretty grateful.  People are leaving gifts by the dozens down in the lobby.  I don’t think Happy’s ever seen anything like this.  He’s pretty stunned.”

There was no making sense of that.  People were sending her gifts?  Gifts for the twins?  Pepper came to the side of her bed, pulling one of the chairs closer as best she could with her hands this full.  “I was thinking since we never got a chance to go shopping that maybe we can look through it together.  See what you like and what you don’t.  And if you do want to shop…”  JARVIS filled the clear, glassy screen on the wall adjacent to her bed with internet children’s and baby boutiques.  Pepper smiled broader.  “We can go online.  Biggest store in the world.”

She had to grin at that, grin and gasp a little sob.  She might have been angry before, irritated at their attempts to coddle her or make her feel better.  At treating this like it was _normal_ , like it was just another labor and delivery, even though the father of the children who would be delivered was dying.  They were her friends, and they were here to care for her, distract her, help her wait this out.  Clint was gone, and Steve was gone, but she truly wasn’t alone.

Bruce handed her one of the bags, and Pepper grasped her hand where it was resting across her belly.  She was bright and comforting.  “It’s going to be okay,” she promised.

Natasha somehow nodded, taking the bag Bruce offered her with the other hand.  It was pale green, with a little yellow ducky on the outside.  She stared at that, lost in it for a moment.  It was the first _baby_ thing she’d seen since becoming pregnant, that she’d really looked at and accepted.  Sniffling, she pushed her hand through the tissue paper and pulled out a fleecy blanket.  It was white and so soft.  New and beautiful.  She held the little blanket tighter, curling her fingers into it.  Then she took a deep breath.  And another.  And another.  “Okay,” she whispered.  Waiting and seeing if this was it, if this was the moment the twins would come…  It was all she could do now.  “Okay.”

* * *

“Should’ve slammed the door…”

A door did slam down the hall, a loud, echoing bang that seemed to shake the little holding cell in which Sam had been thrown.  He leaned up from the hard, cold slab bolted into the wall on one side that could have passed for a bed or a bench, listening for footsteps.  None came.  None had in the last however many hours he’d been trapped in this metal box, waiting and waiting for _someone_ to walk down that damn hallway and at least save him from his solitude.  He was going crazy.  Absolutely fucking insane.  He considered himself a patient person, but damn if this wasn’t torture.  Sighing in disappointment, he let his head thud back down onto bench.  “Should’ve slammed the damn door in your face, Cap.  Slammed it hard.  You need a place stay?  Lay low and hide from your shit ton of enemies?  Don’t have any place else to go?  Too bad.  Slamming the door.”  His voice was thunderous in the silence, and he laughed, singing to some random tune.  “Slam.  Bam.  Right in your face.  Had it with this, Rogers.  Run your damn laps around me, dude.  I don’t care.  Sam’s slammin’ the door in your face!  Christ.  Oh, fuck it.  Somebody get me out of here…”

Nobody seemed interested in doing that.  They’d taken all of his gear.  They’d processed him, but aside from a weapons charge, they didn’t seem to have much on him.  They could maybe place him at the scene of the fight, but they still had no idea what had happened, and Sam sure as hell wasn’t going to tell them.  Every plea he’d made that they listen to him, that they _needed_ to let him go or Captain America would die, had been met with disbelief and derision.  To be honest, if he was in their shoes, he’d probably think he was full of shit, too.  An Avenger out in the fields of some random guy’s farm?  Out here in the middle of nowhere, looking for a soldier from World War II turned HYDRA assassin?  Even he had to admit that was ridiculous.  So they’d laughed at him, tossed him in here, and presumably called the feds to figure out what to do with him.  They’d taken his watch, so he couldn’t tell what time it was, but that had been a _long_ time ago.

And they’d taken Steve’s shield.  It had been in his possession for all of twelve hours, and he’d fucking _lost_ it.  For some reason, the guilt from that was the worst, even more than from having failed and gotten himself arrested, even more than from having Barnes right in his grasp and _losing him_.  It was stupid, considering what was on the line, but he couldn’t shake the shame churning in his empty stomach.  _Steve’s shield_.  He’d observed helplessly as Steve had fallen apart without his shield after they’d stopped Project: Insight.  It was just a dumb disc of metal, the rarest metal on earth, granted, but just metal.  Still, it was tied to everything Steve was and what he represented, not just to the country and the Avengers but to Steve himself.  And now these country hicks had it, and who knew what they were doing with it.

And Clint could be dead or dying.  And Steve was dying.  Sam had told himself over and over again that it was okay now, with Steve in cryostasis.  _“You have time.”_ That was what Hill had told him.  Time that he was now wasting rotting in this holding cell, apparently forgotten.  He sighed angrily.  They’d interrogated him a few times since he’d been here, asking the same questions over and over again and never satisfied with his answers.  Apparently they’d given up on that, because he hadn’t seen another soul in hours.  He’d already tried yelling for someone, and someone had come the first time and told him to shut up.  That, too, had been a long time ago.  Hours.  Maybe even a day.  The second time he’d called, he’d been completely ignored.  As much as he wanted to try again just to do _something_ , it was pointless.

He sat up, sick and tired of lying around and feeling sorry for himself and so damn guilty.  “Come on.  _Think._ ”  There had to be a way out of this.  He was an Avenger.  Avengers did not get trapped in jail cells.  There _had_ to be a way out.  But there was the obvious caveat: he was an Avenger, but one without anything extraordinary about him.  He didn’t have super strength and endurance like Steve and Thor.  He didn’t have an overabundance of tech and money like Stark.  He wasn’t smart like Banner (nor did he have the Other Guy).  He hadn’t been trained to be a spy or assassin like Clint and Natasha.  He was just a soldier, nothing more than that, and if he hadn’t happened to be jogging around DC that morning last summer when Captain America had come up on his left, none of this would have happened.  And this wasn’t to say he thought lowly of himself, but he was out of his league (he’d known that the second Iron Man had blasted his way down into that bunker in New Jersey to rescue them from the STRIKE Team).  He was doing his damnedest not to be depressed about this – that Steve and Natasha and the twins and _everyone_ had been counting on him to find Barnes and _this_ was what had happened – but with only his conscience for company, it was hard not to let it get to him.

He slumped in defeat, realizing for the thousandth time that he wasn’t getting out of here until someone came to get him out, and resigned to waiting some more.

Much to his immense relief, though, not long after that, the door opened and slammed shut again, and this time there were footsteps.  And those footsteps were getting _closer.  Oh, thank God._   Sam stood from the bench and went to the iron bars of the cell door.  Sure enough, the same young officer who’d been arguing with the chief before in Murray’s yard appeared.  He was the only one of the lot of them who seemed to believe Sam’s story.  Well, at the very least, he believed it enough to be intimidated by him.  “The Chief has some more questions.”

Sam cocked an eyebrow.  “That’s nice.  Is he gonna listen to the answers this time?”

The kid flushed in a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment.  Clearly he agreed with Sam that the chief was somewhat intransigent (that was an understatement.  He was an old, arrogant asshole, really), but he wasn’t brave enough to say it.  He only put the key into the lock of the cell and opened it.  Sam obediently held his wrists out (because there was that, too.  No matter how much he wanted to escape, he couldn’t really fathom hurting these cops).  The kid snapped his cuffs on, and away they went.

The police station was a tiny place, which made sense given how small Clarkston, Nebraska was.  By Sam’s count there were about eight cops total, most of them older save for the kid with him.  As he was escorted from the holding cell past the main room to the station’s singular interrogation/conference room, he saw there were state troopers on the scene now.  His stomach sank.  _Great._   That was one step below federal agents.  Maybe he should be grateful to the police chief (Anderson?  Emerson?  Something like that) for wanting to maintain control of the situation; that was probably the only reason the FBI hadn’t gotten involved yet.  Still, it was only a matter of time.  If they linked any of those dead soldiers to HYDRA, the government would be all over this, and there was no way that could turn out in his favor.

Sam was led into the room yet again.  It was a box of a place, with one old nicked table that had been in service far too long.  The chairs surrounding it looked about as weary.  So did the faded green paint that covered the walls.  Overhead a couple of long fluorescent lights spread ugly illumination to beat back the shadows of early evening.  On the table, there was Steve’s shield, still filthy with dried mud but someone had wiped the center to reveal the star.  Sam was incredibly relieved just to see it.  And the chief (Emerson, so said his nametag) was with sitting there, looking rather annoyed and impatient.  “The FBI will be here in a little bit, so I thought I’d give you another chance to come clean.”

Well, that answered that.  “For my benefit, I’m sure,” Sam grumbled as he was nudged to the chair.  “You _still_ haven’t given me a phone call.  Or a lawyer.”

The chief stared at him.  “You want one?  I can have a public defender here.  Unless you want to call Tony Stark collect.  I’m sure he’ll accept the charges.”  God, this guy was an asshole.  Baiting and taunting and generally being nasty.  Honestly, Sam probably should have lawyered up instantly, yesterday when they’d brought him in here.  At the very least, he should have called Hill.  But he didn’t trust anyone, didn’t trust the phone lines here were secure or that HYDRA wasn’t somehow embedded in the state law enforcement infrastructure.  If there was one thing he’d learned about HYDRA it was that they could infiltrate _anywhere_ and by the time you found out you were in trouble, it was usually too late.  Still, HYDRA or no, Swordsman or no, Sam would gladly put endanger himself and tell the truth if it would help Steve.  Problem was this bastard would rather give him a hard time and jerk him around than cooperate.  Sam couldn’t tell if he really didn’t believe his story or if he did and was just being a bastard about it.  “Is this actually Captain America’s shield?”  Emerson swept thick fingers across the smooth surface of the shield before grabbing it and hefting it.  “This is way too light.  I thought he’s got super strength, so wouldn’t his shield be heavier?  And why doesn’t he have it?”

Sam ground his teeth and struggled to hold onto his temper.  Seeing someone else touch Steve’s shield was more upsetting than it should have been.  “I told you.  He’s hurt really badly and he needs help.”

“Right, which is why you’re out here in our little peaceful community, chasing some sort of ex-super assassin.  That makes a whole lot of sense.”  The shield hit the table again with its distinctive hum.

He really didn’t feel like going over this again.  “We didn’t intend for this to happen.  HYDRA came after us, and we’re sorry for–”

“Sorry doesn’t begin to cut it.  This little brawl of yours caused significant destruction to private property, and you’re damn lucky it happened away from town.  People could have been killed.”  Emerson crossed his arms over his large chest.  “But that’s alright, isn’t it?  The Avengers don’t need to be concerned with things like collateral damage.”

“That’s not relevant,” Sam seethed.  He’d say it again if he had to.  He’d be a goddamn broken record if it would help.  “What is relevant is that Captain Rogers needs my help.  He’s going to die unless I can find the man we were looking for.  I’ve already wasted so much time, time he doesn’t have.  I need you to let me out of here.”

“That’s not happening.  There’s no proof you are who you say you are.  Or that poor Captain America is dying, like you claim.”

Christ, it was hard _not_ to jump across this table and smack the shit out of this guy.  Sam had always had a cool head, though, so he managed to keep his ire under check.  “Didn’t you see the footage from Geneva?”

The chief shook his head dismissively.  “Conspiracy,” he stated simply.  “The whole thing.  Everything since New York.  All the press.  It’s the government trying to drum up support for you freaks.”

This couldn’t be real.  No one could be this dumb.  Or heartless.  “You are certifiably stupid if you think that,” Sam retorted.

“Especially with Black Widow coming out and saying she’s pregnant.  That’s all a PR ploy.  Gotta be.  Right when the President and all the other world leaders are getting together to decide how to regulate you guys, she’s out there with tears in her eyes and buns in the oven and we’re supposed to just let all of this go?”

 He didn’t know Natasha had said _anything_ to anyone about being pregnant.  He knew how private she was, how much she’d wanted everything kept secret.  Simultaneously horrified and worried, he sucked in a deep breath to hang on to his temper.  A cool head was only going to take him so far, but he had to stretch that.  “You got something you really want to ask me?  Because if not I’d rather go back to my cell and wait for my public defender to get here.”  He glared at the man squarely.  Maybe this wasn’t the best way to go about getting out of this mess, but he’d had it.  “And don’t bother asking me what you asked before.  My story hasn’t changed.”

“No, but it’s still incomplete.  What were you doing at Walter Murray’s?”

Sam fought not to ball his hands into fists on the table.  “I told you.  We were investigating a possible connection he might have had to the man we need to find.  That’s it.  HYDRA showed up and ambushed us.  My teammate stayed to provide a distraction while I escaped.”

“And what happened to him?”

Sam eyed him evenly.  “That’s another reason I’d like to get out of here.  Or at least make a phone call.  I need to find out if he’s okay.”

The young cop glanced worriedly at his superior, like he was trying to gauge whether or not it was okay to speak.  He went for it.  “There’s been no sign of your friend.  No one’s called anything in.”

Sam didn’t know whether or not to be relieved.  That didn’t tell him anything, but sometimes no news really was good news.  Perhaps he could turn this situation to his favor or at least get some help.  “Are there people out looking for him?  Maybe you could send some cops around to the neighbors and see–”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job!” the chief snapped.  “I don’t care if you are an Avenger.  You don’t come in here and tell me what to do.”

“No, sir,” Sam said sharply, “but–”

“I want to know the truth about what you were doing here!  What happened!  Even if you are who you say you are, you’re not getting anywhere further until you come clean, and it’s in your best interests to do it before the feds get here.  So help me, unless you start telling me the truth–”

“What truth?” Sam spat.

“–I will toss you back into that cell and you can rot in there until a bigger fish comes to eat you up!”  The chief’s beady eyes flashed.  In the background, the young man winced and shook his head.  Did this guy actually think he was a threat to him?  Sam had fought Omega Red, fought HYDRA, fought some of the worst evil the world had seen in recent years.  This guy was _nothing._

Still, he had Sam by the proverbial balls, and he knew it and was thriving in it.  Sam _really_ did not want to go back to that cell, wasting time and hating the company of his own thoughts.  Not when Steve was sick and Barnes was lost again.  Not when he didn’t know if Clint was even alive.  It didn’t matter if he had extra hours or days; the passage of every second felt like a sin that couldn’t be forgiven.  He’d get down on his damn hands and knees to offer his undying gratitude if these jerks would just let him go.

Thankfully it wasn’t going to get that far.

There was a knock on the frosted glass door.  The police chief stared him down a moment longer, like this was some ridiculous game of chicken, before gesturing to the younger officer to get the door.  Sam couldn’t see who it was.  A couple of seconds later, the young guy turned to his superior.  “The feds are finally here.  They want to see you outside.”

 _Shit._   Sam gritted his teeth, dropping his handcuffed hands into his lap in defeat as he leaned back in his chair.  “Yeah, you blew it, pal,” the chief reprimanded in disgust before following the kid out.  Sam had to fight to keep his anger under control.  They’d left him here, basically unwatched.  Even with his hands bound he knew he could escape.  But that wasn’t an option.  He _wouldn’t_ fight cops.  That was a line he couldn’t cross.  Trapped and antsy, he forced himself to be patient and wait again.

When the door finally opened, he had to swallow down his shock at who was there.  Honestly, he didn’t know why he was so surprised.  “Talk about things going to shit,” Fury said, doing very little to disguise his irritation.  He was dressed as he had been in black leather and a long coat, poised and confident.  He walked in alone and closed the door behind him.  “What the hell were you thinking, getting yourself arrested?”

Sam didn’t know whether to be relieved or irritated.  Of course Fury would have a way to get him out of this.  And of course he’d know about his predicament to begin with.  _Of course._ “Took you long enough,” he returned coldly, hoping that hid how worried he’d been.

“I still have connections,” Fury said, “and let me tell you it pained me to have to use them for this.”  He came closer to the table and swung something large and heavy onto it with a loud clank.  It was Barnes’ backpack.  Fury also dropped Sam’s coat and his personal things – his watch, StarkPhone, and his guns – alongside it.  Then he produced a tiny silver key from his pocket and went to work on Sam’s cuffs.  “Mind telling me what happened?”

“Swordsman happened,” Sam said, rubbing his wrists once they were free.

Fury didn’t look pleased.  “I figured that.  Where’s Barton?”

Sam hesitated in answering.  He wasn’t sure what kind of relationship Clint had with Fury, but whatever it was, it seemed to go beyond the bounds of strict professionalism.  He’d gotten that impression about Fury and Romanoff, too.  A touch of familial care.  Some sort of paternal affection, as stripped and clamped down as possible, but there nonetheless.  So he didn’t feel good about the truth.  “He stayed behind to hold them off while I tried to pursue Barnes.”

“So you found him,” Fury surmised.  He was impossible to read.  “Found him and lost him.”

Sam said nothing to that.  Fury went to the backpack and unzipped it.  He wasn’t too careful about dumping the contents all over the table and spreading them out.  Nervously Sam glanced to the door.  “You sure we should be doing that in here?”

Fury’s one eye hardened.  “Yes,” was all he said.  Then he resumed rifling through the books and files.  Sam shot one more uncertain look at the door before joining him.

The two of them worked in silence for a moment, sorting through the papers.  It was as Sam had seen before in the field.  A great deal of data on Steve and Barnes himself, but far more on Howard Stark.  “I was right.  He’s cracking into his past.  And obviously he’s got questions,” Fury commented.  He picked up the biography on Howard Stark.  “Of all the dozens if not hundreds of people Barnes has killed over the last fifty years, why all the interest in Stark?”

Sam thought that was pretty obvious.  “He’s a link between the Winter Soldier and Barnes himself.  Like Steve is.  Someone who was both a target and someone he knew before.  A friend, maybe.”

Fury cocked his eyebrow at that.  “Any idea where he ran?”

Sam gritted his teeth in annoyance.  “If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have been caught around here.”  Fury looked up at him, setting the book through which he’d been leafing to the table.  “The trail went cold.  I chased him for hours, but I was chasing nothing.  He’s gone.  He’s gone, and now he knows we’re looking for him.”

The other man’s face darkened further.  “Did you tell him about Rogers?”

“No.  We shot the shit about the Dodgers and commiserated about how much it sucks to be friends with a guy who fights with a fucking shield instead of a gun,” Sam spat sarcastically.  “Of course I told him.”

Fury wasn’t amused.  “And he just took off, despite that.”

“Something about Barton scared him.”  Sam sighed, letting his hands slap against his thighs as he did.  God, he was tired.  “I think I could have gotten through to him if I’d had the chance.”

Fury seemed to have energy in excess.  Grabbing another one of the folders, he calmly picked through the pages inside.  When he was done, he set that one down after a moment and took another.  Sam watched, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed.  “Maybe the trail forward’s gone cold,” the ex-spy finally said, flipping another couple of sheets, “but the trail behind us is as clear as day.”

“What do you mean?”

Fury handed him the folder.  It didn’t seem to be anything important, just invoices, notes on a few inventions, and a letter or two from someone named Hank Pym to Howard Stark.  These papers were… inconsequential?  Irrelevant.  At least, he couldn’t see what the connection between them was or why he should care.  But as he looked more carefully he did.  They were all dated from the late seventies and early eighties.  And everything was from the same location.  “Utica, New York.”  Sam shook his head in confusion.  _All_ of this Stark Industries stuff was from there.  And these looked like the sort of documents that would be kept in a business office…  “Where’s Utica, New York?”

“Upstate somewhere.”

“What’s there?”

“I don’t know.  Barnes was there at some point, though.  Hunting down the past.”  Fury started loading things back into the backpack.  “You guys might have thrown him off his game, but something tells me if you cracked down deeper into him, he might try even harder to get his answers.  Make his peace with whatever demons he’s excising.”  He looked at Sam squarely.  “Might be worth a look.  I have the jet here.  We can be there in no time.  Unless you have any better ideas?”

He didn’t.  Murray’s place was a crime scene.  Barnes had to know (or at least suspect) the people who’d attacked them were HYDRA, and with the man coming out of the programming, he’d probably bolt for someplace safe.  If Fury was right and he’d been to this place in Utica before…  “What about Barton?”

Fury seemed troubled for a second, his hands stilling in their work.  Then he shoved the rest of the papers and books back into the bag.  “Barton can take care of himself,” he declared sternly, but he didn’t sound sure.  And neither was Sam.  Even if Clint had told him, _demanded_ that he do this, he wasn’t certain leaving him behind was the best course.

But there was no time to spare right now, and this was the best lead they had.  They had no idea where Clint was, and hanging around here to look seemed foolhardy at best and dangerous at worst.  Not with HYDRA potentially hunting for them.  Not with Steve so sick.  And not with Barnes again in the wind.  “Alright.”  He replaced his guns in his shoulder harness, slid his jacket on, and grabbed Steve’s shield.  He hesitated, watching as Fury finished gathering Barnes’ stuff.  “So… I can just walk out of here?”

Fury went to the door.  “Wouldn’t be much of a jail break if you couldn’t.”

There was something in his voice Sam couldn’t quite place.  Again, it was that almost fatherly worry, so distorted and smothered by stoicism that it was almost unnoticeable.  “Thanks,” Sam softly, sincerely said, eager to make the other man feel better for reasons he couldn’t quite understand.

Fury’s gaze was empty as he looked back over his shoulder.  “Let’s go and do this before we lose anyone else.”

* * *

Pepper spent quite a few hours with Natasha, going through the massive collection of gifts from the lobby.  More and more were coming in a flood, which was ridiculous; they already had more sleepers, blankets, diapers, and other baby stuffs than they could possibly ever need or use, even for twins.  At Pepper’s direction (Natasha knew from her time working at Stark Industries that she was exceedingly good at getting organized and staying that way, which made sense given who she was, what she did, and who she had to deal with), they’d sorted the heap into two piles: keep and donate.  After the twentieth or so white, unisex terrycloth sleeper adorned with froggies or ducklings, Natasha had started to lose count.  People had sent boy things and girl things and things that could work for both genders, so many outfits and toys in pink and blue and pastels that it was dizzying.  Bruce went in and out of the room to check on her, pleased that the contractions had stayed quiet, amused at the two women going through the hoard.  And Maria had come once as well to let her know Lukin was on his way to LA, that Carter was making damn sure he was under secure guard and practically muzzled for his treatment of them.  That seemed to be an excuse to see how she was doing, honestly, because she actually asked Natasha if it was okay to tell Sharon and ease her worries.  She’d agreed.  There was no sense in hiding anything now.

After Maria left, they worked through dinner.  Natasha was hesitant and uncomfortable about it all at first, but she got into it in short order.  It _was_ a nice distraction, after all, and Pepper was very careful to keep things light and cheery, full of “oh, isn’t that sweet?” and “don’t you love this?” and “so precious – it almost makes me want to have one with Tony.  _Almost._ ”  Natasha didn’t know if it was all an act (she didn’t think Pepper was quite this into babies and motherhood and all of the sugary sweetness that could come with it), but she was appreciative of it all the same.

She got tired later on.  It was Pepper who noticed, who smiled gently and said she’d leave to let her rest.  She’d arrange to have all the gifts they’d sorted moved to their suite.  Natasha wanted to go, too, but Bruce suggested she spend the night, just in case.  Everything had been very quiet, both the twins and her body, which was good and encouraging that this had all been some sort of false alarm.  Hours had passed since her last serious contraction (although every twinge had her worried something was starting again now).  Natasha couldn’t really fathom her relief; none of this seemed real, odd and fuzzy around the edges.  She was so taken with that, with a tender hope that this would all pass and somehow Steve would be okay and be at her side when their babies were born, that she didn’t really argue when Bruce insisted she stay.  She finished off her juice, used the bathroom, and then settled back into the bed.  Bruce took her off the fetal heart and contraction monitors so she could get more comfortable.  He told her that he had JARVIS monitoring everything so if there was even the slightest change, he’d know no matter where he was.  He, Tony, and Betty were working through the final stages of the cryostasis procedure, which they would complete during the night.  He turned off the lights.  “Everything’s fine,” he said with a gentle smile, pulling the blanket up and over her.  “Try to sleep.”

She tried.  She lay on her side for a long time, listening to the silence of the infirmary.  The whoosh of the Tower’s air recyclers.  The soft hum of machinery, monitors, and computers.  A low, airy buzz of noise that she’d often thought was the arc reactor, powering everything around them.  She’d gotten so used to that that she didn’t even hear it anymore.  Minutes passed.  Many of them.  She couldn’t turn off her mind no matter how she tried, her thoughts scattered and useless, her body alive with so many odd sensations.  She was hypersensitive now, tingling with adrenaline that refused to abate.  But her womb was still, more so than it had been in days.  Even the “fake” contractions she’d been having were gone.  It was probably complete lunacy, but she thought it was the serum.  The serum in _her_ body from the twins.  It had saved her life when the Winter Soldier had shot her months ago and again when Belova had captured her and again when she’d stood up to Omega Red.  It had given her strength, spreading fiery energy and power to her muscles and bones, every time she’d needed it to.  And it was doing the same now.  She’d told Steve that, the night they were married, that she could feel it inside her.  Light against darkness.  _Life._   Maybe it was nonsense, but it was calming to think it.  The serum was inside her, and it was going to hold back the onslaught of labor and keep the children safe until it was time.

She thought that, believed it with everything she had, until she fell asleep.

Her dreams were dark and indistinct.  Disconnected images and shattered thoughts meshed together until nothing made sense.  That awful feeling of being alone came back, as bad as it ever had been.  Even when she’d been hiding in St. Petersberg, she hadn’t felt so abandoned.  In her nightmares, Steve was gone.  He’d died.  There hadn’t been anything Bruce or Tony could have done, even with all the time in the world.  There’d been no way to save him.  There’d _never_ been a way.  As she sank down deeper into her subconscious, things took shape.  She walked in a white room with a casket in its center, draped in the American flag, and they were all there, gathered around her.  The Avengers.  This group that had become her friends and family.  Bruce.  _“I told you one day there’d be a war he wouldn’t be able to stop fighting.”_

Tony.  _“You were right.  I couldn’t fix this.”_

Thor.  _“I tried.  On my honor, I did everything I could.  But there was never any faith to be had.”_

Sam.  _“I was wrong.  You can’t be anything you want to be.”_    There were babies screaming in the distance.  _“You can’t be a mother without him.”_

Clint.  _“It’s not right.  This isn’t where we belong.  You and me…  We’re not meant to be loved.  Everything we touch turns to ash.”_

The crying stopped.  She looked down, and there was nothing but that.  _Ash._   She screamed and turned to run.  _“You’re his wife.  It was your decision, and you need to see it,”_ the others said, and they dragged her back to the casket.  She struggled, cried searing tears, but they refused to let her go.  They flung her forward, and she fell hard.  There stood the Winter Soldier, hair unkempt and wild, face pale and unshaven.  His eyes were filled with tears.  He was looking down, and Natasha was pulled closer.  Against her will she was dragged to her feet, and now she was close enough to see the casket wasn’t a casket at all, but…  _No._

 _“How could you?”_ the Winter Soldier asked.  _“You know he doesn’t like the cold.”_

She set her hand to the cryostasis pod.  It was like ice, freezing her skin until it burned her bones.  The flag was draped over the window to the inside, the window that had been frosted solid so she couldn’t see.  _“I’m sorry,”_ she whispered.

_“It’s too late for that.”_

_“You came?”_ she asked softly.  Hopefully.  _“You came to save him?”_

 _“I came to complete my mission,”_ the Winter Soldier corrected.  He curled his metal fist into the flag and yanked it away.  _“And put him out of his misery.”_ Natasha screamed at the blood coating the window.  _“The two of us…  We both keep paying for loving you.”_

She woke up with a gasp, reeling in the darkness.  “Oh, God,” she whispered.  “Oh, God!”  She closed her eyes against the awful shock, her heart shuddering in a wild race in her chest, her breath coming in quick, shallow pants.  Sweat was sticky and awful on her back and face, and she shuddered with a sudden chill.  _It wasn’t real,_ her mind chanted. _It wasn’t real.  It wasn’t real._

It wasn’t real.  She was safe in the infirmary of the Tower.  Everything was dark with night.  Her eyes flicked to the monitor beside the bed where the clock read 2:45 am.  She lay back down, swallowing through a tight throat, trying to get control of her body and mind.  This was too much.  Too much stress.  Bruce was right about that.  One of the twins kicked her hard, almost accusatory, and she winced and waited for a contraction to follow.  She forced herself to breathe deeply, to stay calm and lax and not fight it if it came.

It didn’t come.  A few minutes spent breathing and assuring herself everything was well was all it took to get control of herself.  She closed her eyes and let herself relax.  The restless twin kept at it, kicking and twisting and punching.  Somehow she knew it was the boy.  Steve had always played that silly game when she’d put his hand on her belly to feel them move, trying to figure out which one was doing it.  He’d smiled and teased her and laughed about it, and she’d called him an idiot but secretly wondered herself.  There was no way to tell, of course, but this time…  She _knew_ it was their son.  “It’s alright,” she promised.  She winced at another overly strong kick.  It seemed distressed to her, like they were somehow aware of what she’d dreamed (not that that was possible), and the need to comfort him was intrinsic, softly flowing from her.  She sat up slightly, looking down on her stomach, sweeping her left hand over it.  Her wedding rings glinted in the meager light as her fingers slipped over the hospital gown.  “It’s alright.  It’s alright.  It’s not real.  None of it’s real.”

His frantic movements inside her actually calmed, much to her amazement.  She smiled through tears, continuing with the gentle touches.  _“Vse horosho_ ,” she whispered.  _“Ne boytes’.”_   She murmured that more, tender in her tone, letting her own eyes close.  It was alright.  There was no reason to be afraid.  Somehow this was going to work out.  She knew it.  Steve had promised he’d be at her side, no matter what, and he kept his promises.  She explained that to their son.  “He’ll be here to meet you.  He’ll hold you when you come.  He’ll smile at you, cry over you.  He loves us, both of you and me, _so much_ , so he’ll find a way to…”  Her voice faltered, but somehow she smiled on.  She didn’t know from where this strength was coming, but it was amazing, so empowering.  The serum.  Steve’s love for her and faith in him.  It didn’t matter.  “He’ll be here.”

The minutes slipped away.  As they did, something else came from the peace of her thoughts.  She didn’t understand, but the words left her on a soft, breath.  A song.  _“Spi, mladenets moy prekrasnyy, Bayushki-bayu.”_   She couldn’t remember where she’d heard this, but it was so clear in her mind.  A soft, feminine voice singing.  The melody sweet and true.  _“Tikho smotrit mesyats yasnyy.  V kolybel’ tvoyu.”_   It came and came, and she let it, not questioning or wondering or fearing.  Inexplicably she found so much comfort in it.  A hazy memory of a white face and red hair.  Gentle hands.  Warmth and love.  Sleepiness.  _“Ty zh dremli, zakryvshi glazki, Bayushki-bayu.”_

The baby had settled inside her while she sang.  Now he was quiet, and she let her voice fade away.  She felt warm and whole for the first time in days, warm in her faith that everything was going to be okay.  Steve would be alright.  There was still faith to be had.  Her faith.  Hers would have to sustain them all.

Outside there were footsteps.  Natasha settled back down onto the bed, turning to look at the lights beyond the closed door of the room.  Soft voices were deep in conversation in the hallway.  She recognized them instantly.  Bruce and Betty.  “But her labor stopped,” Betty said.

“For now.”

“We’d stand a better chance of making this work with the stem cells from–”

“I know.”

“She won’t–”

“I don’t know.  I don’t think so.”

Betty sighed.  “I don’t know if I could.  If I was in her place.  I don’t know if I could…”  There was a rustle of fabric.  “Bruce…”  Her voice turned muffled, like her face was pressed into Bruce’s shoulder.  Someone made a quiet, shushing sound.  “When this is over, promise you’ll come back to Virginia with me.”  Natasha could practically hear Bruce stiffen.  “Things are different now.  There’s no reason you need to hide.  My father wouldn’t dare try anything now, not with President Ellis on your side.  The Avengers are heroes, not monsters.”

“It’s not safe,” he insisted.

“I don’t care.  I _know_ he listens to me.  And I know you can control him if you could just focus on that, on the connection he has with me or–”

_“It’s not safe.”_

“What’s safe?” Betty demanded more firmly.  “Living like this?  Both of us miserable apart from each other?  I _love_ you, Bruce, all of you, and that’s never going to change.  You don’t have to hide from me to protect me.  You don’t have to stay away.”

Bruce’s voice twisted in anguish.  “Yes, I do.  You don’t know how close I came to…  You weren’t there when I lost control.”

“When you were exposed to a chemical agent that _took_ your control from you,” she firmly but softly corrected.  “Nobody died.  Nobody was hurt.”

“That’s only because–”

“You’re too hard on yourself.  How long are you going to punish yourself?  Torture yourself?”  There was an exasperated sigh, the sort of unwilling acceptance.  “Mistakes happen.  That’s not your fault.  And having you with me…  It’s risky.  But life is risky.  And just because something’s dangerous doesn’t mean it’s not worth it.  Together we can–”

An alarm blared.  Natasha’s sleepy eavesdropping turned into heart-pounding terror as she lurched up in bed.  Over the din, she heard JARVIS’ voice, but she couldn’t make out what the AI was saying.  Whatever it was, Bruce yelled back, “Tell Tony we’re on our way!”  _Tony.  Tony’s with Steve._

Footsteps thundered down the hallway.  Natasha groaned in discomfort as she quickly scooted to the edge of the bed.  She swung her legs down, wincing and trying to catch her breath.  Her belly was so big now that it was constantly compressing so much inside her.  She didn’t let that slow her as she stuffed her stockinged feet into slippers.  Pepper had brought down her robe, and once she managed to lever herself up, she quickly put it on.  There was a brief instant where she contemplated staying put – that the stress from all of this would do her and the twins ill – but her fear for Steve was much stronger, and before she thought better of it, she was walking as briskly as she could from the room.  Everything inside was stretching in discomfort, and she feared at any moment the contractions would return.  _No.  The serum’s making me strong.  They’re not going to come now.  Not now._

Fear left her thoughts jagged and useless.  Something was wrong.  She knew it deep in the pit of her stomach.  It was a feeling with which she was becoming miserably well acquainted.  Her heart was beating fast as she made her way down the brightly lit corridor of the infirmary.  She needed to go down a floor to where Tony had connected the cryostasis room to the quarantine ward.  Whatever was going on was serious because the lights actually flickered a moment.  Natasha looked up and down the corridor.  There was no way she’d risk the elevator if there was a problem serious enough to disrupt the Tower’s power supply.  She turned around and made her way to the steps, pushing open the fire escape door at the end of the hall.  Thanking her lucky stars it was down and not up, she descended as quickly but carefully as she could with one hand on the railing and the other around her midsection.  She reached the quarantine floor a minute or two later.  There were red lights flashing along the hallway.  Terrified, she crept along on light feet, not letting that or anything else deter her.  She passed the quarantine area where so many nightmares had played out, slipping quickly down the corridor.  She heard more alarms wailing, desperate and shrill, and they were definitely coming from the room with the cryostasis equipment.  She couldn’t hold back anymore, running as fast as her body would allow her and pulling the door open to get inside.

Tony’s wide eyes glanced at her from beside the cryostasis pod.  “Get out of here!” he yelled.  There was some sort of gas leaking from the capsule in wispy, white jets.  It was cold inside the room, miserably cold, and Tony was scrambling at the controls affixed to the consoles around the pod.  Tools were littered everywhere.  “Get out, Natasha!”

Betty charged to her from the annex to the left where they’d relocated the computers.  She took Natasha’s arm and dragged her away to the safety of the little alcove.  Her brown hair was gathered into a thick pony tail, and her eyes were wide with dismay.  “You shouldn’t be here,” she gasped.  “It’s not safe!”

“What’s going on?” Natasha demanded, watching through the glass window as Tony floundered to try and correct what looked like a serious malfunction.  He went to the pod, gloves on his hands and something that looked like a wrench clenched in his right.  Kneeling beside it, he tried to shut off the valve for the pipe venting the vapor.  Alarm sent her stomach down deep.  The monitors were red with errors, a huge box proclaiming “POWER FAILURE” flashing across each screen.  The energy levels in the cryostasis system faltered and dipped from 87% to 85% to 81%, sinking lower and lower and lower.  She watched in abject terror as the temperature inside the capsule _climbed._   “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know!” Bruce gasped.  “We made a mistake somewhere!  A bad one!  I don’t – Tony, dial it back until we can figure this out!  Shut it down!”

“I’m trying!” Stark snapped, and he was.  Frantically he was fumbling at some sort of manual override beside the failing valve.  “Shit, shit, shit!  Can’t you cancel the last–”

“The computer’s malfunctioning!  JARVIS, get me back in!”

“I am trying to isolate the problem, Doctor Banner, but the system is overriding my attempts to control it.  I do not know if this is a fault in the programming or your calculations, but something is–”

Whatever JARVIS was going to say was drowned out by a new alarm blaring.  Steve’s vitals were changing wildly.  His heartbeat shifted faster, his blood pressure practically skyrocketing, his brainwaves _changing_.  _No._   Natasha darted her gaze between the monitors and the frantic scene in the room beyond.  _No, no, no._   “He’s waking up,” she whispered in absolute horror.  “He’s waking up!”

Bruce looked at the monitors, his frenzied hands stilling over the keyboards.  “Oh, God,” he whispered.  Natasha shook her head numbly, silently imploring him to do something.  “The power disruption brought the temp up high enough for the serum to start bringing him out of it.  This is bad.”

“No shit,” Tony snarled.

“His metabolic rates are increasing,” Betty said.  Her eyes were wide in fear.  “Quickly.”

Bruce was frustrated and helpless.  “Power levels are below 70% and falling!  Tony, we need to get this under control!”

“Tell me how!” Tony snapped back.  “It’s this fucking power coupling…  It’s fried!  The last step in the procedure must have taxed it too much and it gave out and now it’s feeding back into the Tower’s power system!”  He was laboring wildly at the side of the capsule.  Natasha couldn’t see what he was doing, but whatever it was, it was out of desperation.  She looked back at the monitors.  Steve’s vitals were getting stronger and stronger with each second.  The video feed showed his face, still unconscious, but with the temperature rising inside…  “Got it!”

The gas leaking from the capsule abruptly dissipated as Tony corrected the leak.  Immediately one of the alarms ceased, and the system rebooted.  The power levels in the system began to plateau as a steady flow of energy from the Tower’s arc reactor was restored.  They were still low, holding steady at about 65%.  “Is it coming back online?” Tony asked breathlessly.

“Reinitializing,” Bruce responded.  “Hold on.”

It was, but it wasn’t doing it fast enough.  That was painfully obvious, even without the alerts flashing all over the control room.  “It’s not enough to maintain cryofreeze,” Betty gravely declared.

Her soft announcement was thunderous despite pounding hearts, harsh breaths, and whining alarms.  Natasha turned back to the video feed, staring with narrowed eyes, and sure enough, Steve was _wincing._   “Oh, God,” she whispered.  _No.  No, no, no!_   “Bruce!”

Betty was already moving, running out of the annex and into the main room.  Tony was racing to replace the damaged power coupling, grabbing a new one from a box of supplies in the far corner.  She was there to help him.  “What do you need?”

“Tools!” the inventor gasped.  “There!”  Betty raced to the table alongside the pod, pushing it closer.  Tony returned with the power coupling, a small circular, silver thing, and he was quick to kneel at the side of the capsule once more.  “Hand me that!”  He was pointing wildly toward a screw driver, and Betty clambered for it.

Natasha could hardly stand to be still, to watch them struggle to make this repair as fast as possible.  This was like observing a train wreck, helpless and hating every moment of it.  The inevitability was unbearable.  Her blood felt like it was simmering, her heart thudding fast and hard against her sternum, her skin positively crawling.  The twins were restless inside her again.  And inside the pod, the temperature inside was rising faster and faster.  Steve moved his head.  His lips parted around a breathy word she couldn’t hear, and his expression tightened into a pained grimace.  “Hurry,” she begged.  “Hurry!”

It wasn’t fast enough.

Steve’s eyes snapped open.  Natasha gasped and lurched forward.  “Bruce!”

It was like a critical point had been reached.  Everything _surged._   Steve’s pulse.  His breathing.  His brain activity.  _Everything._

The front door of the pod shuddered.  Natasha gasped as she watched Steve scream.  Watched him bang the door.  His body temperature was rapidly rising, rising unsafely, and he was in pain.  She could see it.  His heartrate was dangerously high.  “Just let him out,” she demanded.  “He’s terrified!”

“Tony, you have to do this faster,” Bruce warned.  “Steve’s awake in there!”

“No shit!” snapped Tony again.  The pod shuddered as Steve hit harder.  He was more aware, more panicked.  It was impossible to tell how cognizant he was.  To him, all these hours of sleep hadn’t passed.  He was right back where he had been, panicked and desperate to escape.  He was pounding and struggling wildly.

Natasha couldn’t make herself watch.  “Let him out!  Bruce, let him out!  He’s terrified!”  Bruce turned to her, terrified too, trying to recalibrate the computer, entering their calculations anew.  His hands were flying across the controls, just as Betty and Tony were scrambling to try and repair the pod.  It was too late for that now.  _It was too late!_   “Let him out!”

The pod shook again with a mighty punch to its interior.  Tony lifted his head, wide-eyed and horrified.  His eyes locked onto the window where the frost was already dissipating.  “Steve, stop!  Stop!  Listen to me!  You’re okay, but you need to calm down!  Calm down!”  Steve couldn’t hear him, his body bent and twisted in a frenzied attempt to free himself, veins and tendons taut in his neck as he arched his back and writhed.  He pounded again, powered by panic and the serum.  And again, stronger still.  “Steve, no!  No!”  And _again_.  This time the door dented.

The next time, it broke clear away.

It happened so fast, barely more than a blink of an eye.  Betty screamed.  Tony shouted something that Natasha couldn’t hear.  A klaxon wailed as the cryostasis chamber failed completely, jets of icy air venting violently into the room.  Something swelled with pressure and exploded.  And Betty fell.

That was all it took.  A piece of metal smacking her in the head and dropping her roughly to the tiled floor.  A freak occurrence, a twist of fate.  An accident yet again plunging them into a chaotic disaster.  As Bruce realized what had happened, his horrified eyes darting between Steve falling out of the pod and Betty’s crumpled form, the anger visibly _burst_ inside him.  All of his restraint, his calm composure and stability, vanished like it had never been there at all.  The anger morphed out of control from the low-laying frustration and aggravation of the last few days to complete and utter _rage._

And the Hulk roared.

Natasha watched, horrified beyond all rational thought, as Bruce transformed right before her eyes.  Just as he had on the helicarrier years ago, the man faded away, skin turning from healthy olive tones to deep, sickly greens, muscles beyond imagination growing from beneath flesh.  The stature of a man grew into the bulk of a beast.  Cloth ripped.  Eyes went wild with unrestrained fury.  The monster screamed and slammed right through the wall, glass and sheetrock pulverized from the force of it.  Natasha shrieked, ducking to protect herself and the twins.  As bad as the situation had been a moment ago, this was worse.  This was _so much worse._

The ground shook as the Hulk stampeded toward his fallen love, and he cried out loud enough to vibrate the Tower.  “Oh, shit!” Tony screamed, and the next thing Natasha knew, she heard the sound of jets firing and saw red and gold streak overhead.  Iron Man flew from the storage area behind her, whizzing above her, and she scrambled in the mess of debris to see what was happening.

Steve was on his knees, coughing violently, shaking even more so, blue eyes wide and full of tears.  He obviously had no idea where he was, maybe not even who they were, and when he looked at the Hulk, there was no recognition.  He was far too damaged and traumatized for any rational thought.  And the monster…  _Oh, God._   The Hulk glared, gathering Betty’s limp form in his huge hands and gently carrying her away.  Iron Man encased Tony, and the inventor was desperately stepping between Steve and the beast.  “No, no!  No!  We’re not doing this!  Bruce, back off!  Back off!  _Think!_ ”

There was no thinking.  It was far too late for that.  The Hulk set Betty gently back down onto the floor, his thick fingers trailing down her bruised cheek.  He whirled, howling again in heartbreaking rage.  “Bruce, stop!  Stop!” Tony begged.  “She’s alright!  It was an accident!  Don’t do–”  Whatever he meant to say was lost as the Hulk smacked him violently.  Iron Man was sent careening into the far wall with enough force to break right through it.  The monster charged toward Steve.

 _“Stop it!”_   Natasha moved without thinking, running into the room, and she skidded to a halt in front of her husband.  She tucked her stomach away and covered Steve completely.  This was crazy.  Insane.  Completely irresponsible.  Something from a nightmare, from aboard the helicarrier when the Hulk had nearly killed her, from that warehouse in New Jersey where he’d nearly killed Steve.  But just as she’d known before that it had been the serum making her strong, she _knew_ she could do this.  She knew she had to protect Steve.  Stand up to monster to keep him safe.  She’d do _anything_ to keep him safe.  And she knew she could.  She was the only one now who could.  “Stop!  Stop!  Bruce!”

It seemed completely unfathomable that the Hulk would stop, let alone for something and someone that posed absolutely no threat to him, but he did.  His huge feet ripped ruts into the tile, crushing the surface down to dust with the force required to halt his advance so suddenly.  He stared at her, murderously scowling, but his eyes softened ever so slightly.  Curious.  Recognizing.  Realizing.  _Doubting._

Natasha pushed Steve further behind her.  She never looked away from those dark, beady eyes, searching for the man beneath the monster.  Bruce was in there, she knew.  _She knew it._   Terror robbed her of her breath, of every rational thought in her mind, but somehow she thought back to Betty, to Betty calming the beast with her gentle hands and soft looks and peaceful smiles.  She managed to slow her pounding heart, regain her control, and though her hand shook terribly, she raised it.  She did just as Betty had, tentatively reaching toward the Hulk.

The moment dragged on in tense, miserable silence.  There were no words, no pleas for this to stop, for mercy or restraint.  There was only Natasha, crouching with the might of the Hulk looming over her, Steve crushed to the ground beneath her, her hand raised in submission.  The monster darted his angry gaze from her tremoring fingers to her palm and then down her arm to her wide but unwavering eyes.  Natasha waited until she had his attention, had it _firmly_ just as Betty had had before, and then she nodded.  The small motion was enough to make the violent tension dissipate, leaving the Hulk’s thick muscles, and he raised his own monstrous hand to touch it to hers.  Natasha fought to hold in her gasp, to keep herself serene and nonthreatening.  If she moved improperly now…  _I won’t._   She let her fingertips brush against the Hulk’s, their hands palm to palm.  His skin was so rough and leathery that she thought she could feel every pore.  When her touch wasn’t met with retaliation, she turned her hand around and laid it into his palm.  Never once did she look away.  Her breathing slowed further as the Hulk grunted, glancing between her hand and her eyes again.  She turned her palm again, sliding it up his forearm where wiry hairs snagged at her soft skin, keeping her touch light and soothing.  Slowly she dragged her fingertips back down from his elbow to his wrist, so careful and almost reverent.  The beast sniffed and grunted again, but it was plain to see the moment had pulled him from the storm of his rage.  The madness was gone.  The violent hatred was disappearing.  The consuming desire to destroy faded.

And with that, with the hold of the Hulk’s rage loosening and loosening, the monster unraveled completely.  He took a staggering step back, turning away from Natasha.  She watched with shock, awe, and overwhelming relief as the creature before her shrunk, reverting back into a mere man.  Muscles disappeared.  Green skin regained its healthy hue.  A moment later, the transformation was over again, and Bruce was left lying on the floor, breathing heavily in the tattered remains of his clothes.

The room was completely still.  There were still gases leaking and lights flashing and alarms whimpering.  Something was burning, and there was debris everywhere.  Natasha couldn’t catch her breath, too amazed at what had just happened to think.  Tony had climbed out of the rubble, and now he was moving closer.  “Jesus,” he whispered.  He stared at her in incredulity and disbelief.  “Are you okay?”

Against all odds, she was.  She couldn’t find her voice to speak, so she nodded.  Bruce was crawling over to Betty, desperate to reach her.  When he did, he cradled her in his arms.  Tony shook his head.  “Is she–”

“She’s alright,” Bruce declared quietly.  His voice was hoarse, and he looked positively drained.  He was pale and shaking.  Horrified with how close they’d come to the Hulk killing Steve.  Killing them all.  “She’s alright.  She’s unconscious.”

Beneath Natasha, Steve groaned, and suddenly everything she’d forgotten in the unbelievable moments before came rushing back.  He was crumpled beneath her.  She jolted away from him, remembering that she shouldn’t be touching him.  God, she wanted to touch him.  “Steve,” she gasped.  “Steve!”

Tony immediately came closer, unsteady in his steps.  “Natasha, get away from him,” he warned gently.  That was the last thing she wanted to do, and before she could stop herself, she curled her fingers onto Steve’s bicep.  She nearly shook apart with the contact.  His skin was a strange mess of cold and hot, unevenly frozen and burning with life.  Touching him after so much, her skin to his… 

His hazy eyes blinked, his naked body covered in moisture so much it was dripping into a puddle beneath him.  “Nat?”  His voice was almost nothing.  “Nat?  Where…”

It took a sharp kick from inside her to make her let go.  Doubts and horror and anger and so many questions swirled uselessly around her head until she was dizzy.  Was he okay?  Was he…  “Steve…”

Tony’s metal fingers took her arm and gently pulled her away.  “Move back.  Just let me–”

Steve curled onto his side.  She could hear him struggling for breath.  For a moment, she couldn’t understand why.  Then her brain sluggishly understood.  He was out of cryostasis.  The serum was restored, his metabolism immediately flourishing anew, and it was surging inside him.

And the serum was what was killing him.  He struggled uselessly as his body was consumed anew by the virus.  She could practically see it happening.  _No…_   The shock of what had happened, of what was happening, set in harshly.  He gave a whimpering cry, turning onto his belly, shuddering uncontrollably.  He coughed out a frozen breath, flakes of blood fluttering down onto the floor.  It was all coming back.  She could _see_ it happen.  Newfound fever consumed his eyes, turning his white skin warm with a flush, burning through his body like fresh tinder had been set to a dying flame.  His limbs jerked spasmodically around him, some sort of half aborted attempt at seizing, but there was too much damage.  Coming out of cryostasis so quickly and violently had only made that so much worse.  He gasped once more, his eyes rolling back into his head, before his lungs stopped working.

Before his heart stopped working.

“Sir, Captain Rogers is in cardiac arrest!” JARVIS exclaimed, and now different alarms screamed in the silence.

“Fucking goddamn it,” Tony moaned.  “No, no.  Don’t do this, Steve!  Banner!”

Despite how shaken he was and how much he clearly didn’t want to leave Betty, Bruce was stumbling to his feet and running down the hall.  Tony gently rolled Steve onto his back.  “Natasha, get gloves from over there.  And then get out of here!”

 _No!_   She didn’t care about protocols anymore.  She grabbed the box of latex gloves that had fallen from one of the toppled work tables, scrambling through the glass in her slippers.  Tony was already stepping out of Iron Man and kneeling beside Steve.  “Hang on, Cap.  Hang on…  Please don’t die on us like this.  Come on!”  Natasha tossed the gloves at Tony after donning a pair herself.  He was quickly sliding his hands into them.  “JARVIS, talk to me!”

“He is suffering from ventricular fibrillation,” the AI declared, the monitors around the room that were still intact displaying a diagram of Steve’s body and information from the biometric scanners.  “The shock of warm blood back to a frozen core has strained his heart, exacerbating the damage caused by his immune system.  The heart muscle can no longer contract effectively.  He is dying.”

 _“No shit!”_ Tony wailed.  “Bruce, goddamn it!  _Get back here!_ ”  Natasha came closer to help, to breathe for Steve _because he wasn’t breathing,_ but Tony sharply waved her back.  “No!  Didn’t you hear me?  Stay away!  We can’t risk those babies!  We can’t!  _Stay back!_ ”  Tears flooded her eyes as Tony balled his hands together over Steve’s broad chest.  She wanted to argue.  It was too late now.  She’d been exposed.  If there’d ever been a threat to begin with, _it was_ _too late now._   But she couldn’t find the words and Tony was starting CPR.  He pushed hard on Steve’s bruised and frozen body, trying to force his heart to beat enough to send blood to his brain.  Then he leaned over Steve’s face, tipping his head back and squeezing Steve’s nose and sealing his mouth over Steve’s purple lips.  Bold and dangerous and desperate.  When he was done breathing for him, Tony pulled away.  He was whispering raggedly, counting even as tears filled his eyes.  “One.  Two.  Three.  Four…  Please, Steve.  Come on…  _Come on._ ”

Bruce was back with a cart loaded with supplies.  Natasha barely heard the racket, barely saw him race inside with an intubation kit.  Barely understood their words.  Barely breathed herself.  Bruce was ripping sterile wrappers and then angling a metal tool between Steve’s slack lips and guiding a tube down his throat.  The end of that he attached to a bag which he began to compress.  “Natasha, are you alright?” he asked, turning wild eyes to her.  “Natasha?”  She found it within herself to nod.  His voice was surprisingly steady given what had happened.  “There’s a gown there and a face mask.  Put them on and help.”

She scrambled to do that, coming back to herself as she found the sterile protective gear.  “We have to shock him now.  Natasha, hurry.”  She did.  Once she had the gown over her stomach and chest (she couldn’t tie it, barely able to reach behind herself and with her fingers shaking so bad), and the mask over her face, she ran back to Bruce’s side.  Bruce glanced at her, sweat covering his skin and thick in his hair.  “Squeeze the bag every five seconds.  JARVIS can time it for you.”

Again, all she could do was nod.  She did as she was told, realizing why belatedly.  Bruce now had both hands free, and he reached for the cart and yanked it closer.  He was taking the machine with the paddles.  And he was talking quickly.  “He’s barely got a rhythm.  This isn’t going to–”

“I know!” Tony snarled, furiously pushing at Steve’s unmoving chest.  “I know!  Come on, Steve!”

Bruce was fumbling with a needle full of epinephrine.  He injected Steve and tossed the spent cartridge.  “We can’t–”

“Yes, we can!  Fucking shock him already!”

Bruce grabbed the paddles, fiddling with the machine a second more before placing them on Steve’s chest.  “Clear!” he cried.  But he didn’t do anything.  “Natasha, let him go!”  Sometime during all of this she’d apparently grabbed Steve’s hand and linked their fingers together, hers strong in blue latex and his white around bruises and completely limp.  She released him as though he’d burned her.  Bruce immediately pressed the paddles to Steve’s chest and pressed the buttons on them.  Steve jerked, and Natasha’s hopes soared.  But the lines representing his cardiac rhythm on the monitors remained jerking and dangerously uneven, and the alarms continued to shriek.  “Keep going,” Bruce ordered.

_Keep going._

They did.  They worked in silence for second after second, minute after minute.  Chest compressions and artificial respiration and defibrillations, one after another.  “He’s not gonna die,” Tony gasped, pumping hard, sweating, shaking his head.  “He’s not gonna die.  He’s not!”

“Tony,” Bruce whispered in horror.

_“He’s not going to die!”_

But there was nothing they could do as Steve’s ruined body simply gave out, as his bleeding lungs and weakened heart completely and utterly failed.  None of it mattered.  No medicine.  No science.  No amount of compressing a still chest.  No jolt of electricity to restore fading life.  Nothing to revive him.  The serum that had protected her and their children, that had _empowered_ her, had turned against him and destroyed him.  There was no way to stop that.  They’d tried so much.  Cryostasis.  Drugs.  Palliative care.  Stubborn refusal to admit the truth.  Hope and faith.  There was _nothing_ they could do.

He flatlined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Yeshche net._ – Not yet.  
>  _Pozhaluysta, podozhdite. Pozhaluysta._ – Please wait. Please.  
>  _Podozhdite vashego papu. On tak vas lyubit._ – Wait for your father. He loves you so much.  
>  _Pozhaluysta, podozhdite._ – Please wait.  
>  _Vse horosho._ – It's alright.  
>  _Ne boytes'._ – Don't be afraid.  
>  _Spi, mladenets moy prekrasnyy, Bayushki-bayu._ – Sleep, my beautiful, good boy. _Bayushki-bayu._  
>  _Tikho smotrit mesyats yasnyy. V kolybel' tvoyu._ – Quietly the moon is looking into your cradle.  
>  _Ty zh dremli, zakryvshi glazki, Bayushki-bayu._ – But you must slumber with your little eyes closed. _Bayushki-bayu._


	13. Chapter 13

Apparently Utica, New York was also in the middle of nowhere.  Fury set the quinjet down in a field outside a huge, old gray building.  It was very late at night when they arrived, so it was a tad difficult to see anything.  The sky was clear, though (for once), and the moon was bright, shedding ethereal illumination over everything.  The massive spread of lawn around the building was muddy with spring’s first thaw, yellowed grass even more blond in the pale light.  “Are we sure this place is abandoned?” Sam asked as he and Fury descended the ramp of the quinjet.

The aircraft sealed behind them with a hydraulic hiss.  Fury had landed near the woods, so the trees and the shadows were thick enough to provide some cover.  The area was quite forested, aside from this one, fairly flat clearing in a mountainy region, and it was already pretty far from anything else.  They were northeast of the New York State Thruway, close to the Adirondacks.  The place sort of screamed “go away”.  “According to the mountains of information we have available to us, yes,” Fury said, his tone a tad withering.  They hadn’t been able to find much on this place, which Sam supposed made sense.  Stark Industries (particularly in the late eighties) had been heavily involved in weapons design and manufacturing.  It also had long-held ties to SHIELD, which would only increase the need for secrecy.

Still, he didn’t like going into this blind.  Obviously _someone_ had tended the grounds before winter because while things weren’t meticulously well kept, the yard wasn’t loaded with frozen weeds and overgrowth, either.  “Maybe we should call Stark,” he said.  This wasn’t the first time he’d thought about it.  In fact, as Fury had flown them here while he’d gone through Barnes’ backpack some more, he’d mulled it over constantly.  This felt… _wrong_ in a sense.  Barnes had murdered Tony’s parents.  It didn’t matter if it had happened twenty-five years ago.  This was his father, his mother.  His father’s company and his father’s warehouse.  Didn’t he deserve to know what was going on?

On the other hand, that added an entire layer of complexity onto this already complicated situation that they didn’t need.  Tony’s instructions stuck in his mind like a thorn.  _“Short of killing the bastard, you do whatever you need to do to drop him.”_   Hunting down answers for why Barnes was prying into the past, Stark’s past it seemed, probably wouldn’t gel with Tony’s approach.  And there was no telling what was going on at the Tower.  Fury had tried calling a little while ago, but Hill hadn’t responded.  That had only heightened Sam’s anxiety, driving him utterly crazy with worry.  They needed to get this done.

Fury sighed, checking his guns (at least the ones Sam could see).  “Let’s check it out first.”

That seemed as good a decision as any.  As they walked across the dark field, Sam could only pray it was the right one.

The warehouse was more of a complex than a single structure.  There was a main building, long, grayish white, and rectangular, and it was connected via an elevated walkway to an auxiliary section that was smaller.  In addition, a few other buildings were further back on the grounds.  “This looks like way more than a warehouse,” Sam commented quietly.

“R&D,” Fury supplied.  His glance was harsh with warning, and Sam could have smacked himself for being such an idiot.  It was an eighteen hour drive or so from Lincoln, so it was possible given the time that had passed that Barnes could have come back (assuming he’d actually been here before and assuming he wasn’t willing to fly, which, given his prosthetic arm and host of issues, seemed probable).  That meant it wasn’t worth the risk of being sloppy.  So he shut his mouth and checked his guns, too.  Steve’s shield was light and comforting on his back.  At least they were prepared if anything went wrong.

When they got closer, they picked up the pace.  Fury was surprisingly fast for being an older guy (at least, Sam thought he was older.  What did he know, though?).  They darted across the open yard until they were near the building.  Sam glanced around quickly.  No lights.  No sign of people.  And no obvious signs of surveillance equipment, not that that was necessarily evidence that they were safe.  There was a main entrance that had a long drive leading to it.  A security checkpoint blocked the way further down, its bar firmly stretching across the road but its post apparently unoccupied.  To the left of where they were and a bit behind the main building, Sam spotted wide garage doors, white with the Stark Industries logo painted across them in gray.  Loading docks.  _Pretty tired of sneaking into places like this._   He supposed it was safer than trying the front door.  He followed Fury’s lead, keeping to his footsteps, as they raced closer.  Once they reached the garage doors, he paused to catch his breath, looking out through the night to the dark blobs of the trees across the yard.  “Locked?” he whispered.

Fury tried the first door, but it predictably didn’t budge.  He was quick to move to the next, pulling at the handle, but it was secured as well.  “Damn it,” he muttered, rapidly taking stock of their surroundings.  Sam followed his gaze, noticing with dismay that there were indeed security cameras affixed to the exterior of the building near the doors.  Luckily there were dark, apparently not in use.  That was a stroke of good luck, it seemed, because they were going to have to break in.

Sam turned to guard their rear as Fury reached inside his coat, probably searching for some sort of spook tech to get them inside.  He didn’t even get a chance to pull his equipment out, though, because the door behind them suddenly rattled open.  Sam whirled, drawing one of his guns and pointing it at whoever was there.  It wasn’t at all who he expected.

“Whoa,” a man said, raising his hands given the two handguns aimed at him.  He was old, really old, his boxy face loaded with wrinkled, age-spotted skin.  He wore outdated square glasses, and though his face was slack with shock now, he had laugh lines rolled one upon the other around his twinkling dark eyes and mouth.  His white hair was brushed back from a high brow, and he had a mustache.  He looked like the cheery, goofy grandfather sort.  “Whoa.  Okay, it’s fine.  Just take what you want.”

Fury’s eye narrowed.  “Who the hell are you?”

The old guy winced.  “Stan?”

Sam glanced at the ID badge clipped to the breast pocket of his beige uniform shirt.  It was a Stark Industries one, and the man’s picture was there along with his name.  “You work here?” he asked.

Stan nodded.  “Sure do.  Who are you guys?”  This guy seemed harmless, so Fury holstered his weapon.  Sam followed suit.  Stan’s eyes widened behind those glasses.  “Oh, wait.  Are you guys security?  Did Mr. Stark send you?”

Sam glanced at Fury.  “Why would Stark send us?”

Stan flinched again, like he was surprised the answer wasn’t obvious.  “Because I asked him to?”  Fury actually turned and met Sam’s gaze in confusion, which was quite a tell for someone as proficient at emotional stoicism as he was.  Stan misread that and his face fell even further.  “Okay, just take whatever you came to take.  It’s fine.  I won’t stop you.”

Sam stepped closer because Stan was obviously serious, surrendering wearily to what seemed to him to be a robbery.  “We’re not here to take anything.”  He shook his head in puzzlement, looking behind the old man to the rows and rows of boxes back there.  “What is this place?”

Now Stan looked perplexed.  “One of Mr. Stark’s warehouses.  Well, at one point in time it was one of Mr. Stark’s development headquarters, but not anymore.”

“Which Mr. Stark?” Fury asked, obviously concerned this guy was more than a little out of it.  What the hell was a lone security guard (or whatever he was) doing at his post at an abandoned facility in the middle of the night?

“Anthony,” Stan responded, affronted at the implication.  “I’m old, but I’m not senile.  I used to work for Mr. Howard, but when he passed on and the company went to his son, well…  The company moved its headquarters out to California, and this place and all of its stuff got left.”

“So Tony doesn’t know about this?”

Stan relaxed more.  “Well, sure, he _knows_ about it, as in it’s probably on a ledger or two someplace.  I get a paycheck every couple of weeks for tending the grounds and making sure nothing gets stolen.  You guys really aren’t here to burgle me.”

“Burgle you?” Sam responded with a laugh he couldn’t help.  Then it clicked.  _Barnes._   “Someone burgled you recently?”

Stan nodded.  “Hey, you wanna come in?  It’s colder than a well-digger’s ass out here.”  Sam couldn’t quite fathom things had worked out like this.  This was certainly one way to get inside.  Not the way they’d anticipated, granted, but a lot easier, being invited by what was apparently the only guy who still cared about this place.  “Got a pot of coffee brewing.”

The prospect of hot coffee probably wasn’t what convinced Fury, but he stepped through the garage door all the same.  Sam followed, and Stan reached up to pull the door shut behind them.  True to what he promised, it was warmer.  It was also a tad claustrophobic with shelves and shelves of crates and boxes filling the long, vacuous expanse of the warehouse.  Sam felt a little bit like he was stepping into the end of _The Raiders of the Lost Ark._   “What is all this?”

“Oh, odds and ends.  A lot of it is Mr. Stark’s less popular inventions.  Howard Stark’s, I mean.  At one point in time, this place was really a hub for the company.  Once everything moved west, most the employees went with it.  Mostly now it’s just storage.  I’ve been tending it for the last ten years or so.”

“Wait,” Sam said as they walked down between two ridiculously tall rows of shelves, each completely stocked.  A few of the crates had SHIELD stamped over their exteriors.  “You’ve been alone here looking after all this stuff for ten years?  This huge place, and it’s just you.”

“Yep.”

“And you’re okay with that.”

Stan grunted and shrugged.  “Back when Mr. Howard was still alive, I sort ran the roost here.  And when things started to shut down, I figured keeping an eye on things was something I could do for him.”

“Not to mention that it’s cushy job, right?” Fury said.  He gave the old man a knowing look.  “Hanging out here, mowing the lawn every once in a while.”

“You think I mow that?  Hell, no.  I hire someone,” Stan admitted without a shred of guilt.  “But, yeah, it’s not a bad gig.  Security guard slash groundskeeper slash warden.  I walk the perimeter.  Make sure all of my kids are accounted for, though it’s not like they could go anywhere, I guess.”  He fondly patted a box on the shelf and was rewarded with a spray of dust.

While he was coughing his way through that, Fury looked around, eye narrowed and appraising.  “What a waste of a tremendous resource,” he said, almost to himself.  “There has to be a better use for a place like this.”

“That’s what I said,” Stan claimed.  Sam whacked him gently on the back until he finished hacking.  “Hot damn.  Thanks, son.  Anyway, that’s what I said.  But no one listened.  Stane wanted stuff done his way, so that was the way it got done.  But it’s not all bad.  Got me a nice office with a computer and a radio that barely gets the Yankees and a coffee maker.  Until recently, I was happy as a lark babysitting this place.”

They continued on until they reached an office.  The warehouse was dimly lit inside considering the time of night, but the golden illumination was enough to reveal that this had at one point in time been Stark’s office.  It was nice, large and wood-finished in a place that was otherwise utilitarian and drab.  It was cluttered inside, filled with files and books.  Old designs and blueprints were spread over a desk that looked like it hadn’t been touched in ages.  There was an adjacent room, which was itself connected to a little kitchen, and that was what Stan apparently considered his “office”.  It was smaller, with a metal desk, a well-used rolling chair, his radio and computer, a little mini-fridge, and the coffee maker.  It was sweet in a way that he’d left Stark’s office as it had been before he’d died two decades ago.  It was also a bit creepy, walking into the place in which a now dead man had worked and invented and conducted his business.

Fury cast his eye about the room.  “Until recently.  You mean until you were burglarized.”

“Yep.  I first saw evidence of it a few months back.”  Stan walked through the expansive office to his little alcove, obviously intending on getting them coffee.  “Someone had disabled the alarms and gotten in through the garage doors, just like you two gents were trying to do.  Whaddya say your names were again?”

“Sam,” Sam offered.

Fury looked downright aggravated to be in this position.  Needing to introduce himself to some old codger _civilian._   “Nick,” he finally said.  Sam had to smile, despite it all.

Stan looked back, like it was only now occurring to him that maybe he should find out who his guests were before inviting them into his inner sanctum.  “And you’re not cops.  Or Stark Industries security.”

“We’re friends of Tony’s,” Fury supplied.  Stan seemed pleased with that, cocking an eyebrow and continuing over to the coffee maker.  He grabbed his cup, took a sip, decided it wasn’t to his liking, and dumped it down the sink in the kitchen.  “So someone broke in.”

“Right.  Yeah.  A few months ago.  I couldn’t see that anything was stolen, so I didn’t make a fuss about it.  But then it happened again.  And again.”  He refilled his mug.  “You guys want some?  It’s some kind of expensive blend Mr. Stark always ordered.  It’s passable.”

Sam winced with the thought that maybe this guy was drinking coffee from the nineties or earlier.  “Did you ever see the guy?”

Stan gave a half-hearted shrug.  “Not really.  He took out the security cameras the first time.  I put a work order into Malibu, but they obviously have better things to do than send a repair crew out here.  I started thinking I’d spend the night a few times a week, see if I could catch him in action.  I think I saw him once.  Weird fella.  He’s really fast.  Likes the shadows.”

“Let me guess,” Fury said.  His leather overcoat crinkled as he folded his arms across his chest.  “Shoulder length brown hair.  Metal arm.”

“Wait.  His arm’s _metal?_   I thought it just some new fan-dangled fashion thing kids are doing nowadays.  A tattoo or something.”

Again, Sam couldn’t help an amused grin.  Barnes was probably as old as this guy was in reality.  “What did he want?”

Stan gave another shrug.  “Got me.  Like I said, he never took any of the inventory, which is weird because there’s some crazy stuff here.  Signal blockers.  Weapons.  Engines.  Real high-tech gadgets.  But he just left it.  The one time I caught sight of him, he was in Mr. Howard’s office here.  He bolted when he noticed me.  He was looking through some stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“Old stuff.  Files and newspapers and things like that.  Mr. Howard was something of a history buff.  He kept all kinds of stuff from the good old days.  Here, I’ll show you.”  Stan led them back into Howard Stark’s office.  He flipped on more of the lights, spreading pleasant, golden illumination around the spacious place.  It was cluttered, not disorganized, but filled with odds and ends, like the dumping ground of a working man.  Stan pointed to a far file cabinet.  “Most of that was on the floor.  I picked it up.  And the guy obviously went through the desk.”

Fury nodded.  “Mind if we…”

Stan seemed a tad hesitant for a moment but only that.  “Be my guest.  Might as well be useful to somebody.”

Fury went to the desk.  Sam took the file cabinet.  They worked in silence a moment, opening drawers and rifling through Stark’s possessions.  Again, Sam felt wrong doing this, like this was somewhat akin to grave-robbing.  He’d learned more about Howard Stark in the last twelve hours than he’d ever known before, though, and it was pretty obvious from all accounts that Stark thought the world of Steve Rogers.  His “greatest creation” as he’d called him in one of those books Barnes had had.  He’d never really thought about it before, but this probably explained some of Tony’s issues with Steve.  Now wasn’t the time for that, though.  He pulled a few files out of the cabinet and quickly looked through them, but they were more of the same.  Inventory logs and reports on inventions and such, all on the same paper that Barnes had had in his backpack.  None of it looked any more relevant than what they’d seen back in Nebraska.

Stan’s voice drew his attention.  “Yeah, I found that on the floor.”  Sam turned, setting the last folder back into the cabinet, to see Fury opening a small cardboard box.  “I don’t know if the guy stole whatever was in it or the box was empty to begin with.”  Stan looked a little sad.  “Mr. Howard wasn’t the best when it came to stuff like that.”

An unreadable expression briefly crossed Fury’s face before he closed the lid and tossed the small box to Sam.  Sam caught it.  There was a piece of paper, yellowed with age, taped to the exterior.  _“Edwin,”_ it read, _“make sure this gets to Tony.”_   Sam lifted the lid only to find a card and a smaller, wooden box, the size that would hold a trinket or a piece of jewelry or the like.  The card was plain, white, with the same messy scrawl on it.  _“Tony, one day when you’re at the head of our family’s legacy – our family’s real legacy – take this and understand what I wanted for you.”_   _This_ , whatever this was, was gone.  Aching inside for reasons he didn’t quite fathom, Sam walked back to the desk and set the empty boxes down on it.  His foot struck something as he did.

Stan came closer as Sam crouched to pick up a banker’s box chock full of stuff.  “That was spread all over the place.  I cleaned it up best I could.”

“What is it?” Fury asked.

Sam pulled some things out.  A photobook, it seemed.  A bunch of old newspapers from decades past.  A literal stack of them.  He lifted the book out and opened it.  The pages were weathered and creaked with the motion.  Inside there were all sorts of pictures.  A young Howard Stark with Steve Rogers.  With Albert Einstein.  With Presidents Roosevelt and Truman.  Men who’d shaped the century.  Howard working on his inventions.  Someone named Anton Vanko.  Someone else named Hank Pym, probably the same Hank Pym who’d written those letters he’d seen before.  Other men he didn’t recognize.  And there were family pictures, too.  Howard holding an infant Tony.  Howard with a beautiful, charming woman who had to be Maria Stark.

Fury picked up a picture frame from the box.  The pane had shattered, leaving only the glossy print.  “That was broken,” Stan explained.  “I don’t know if he smashed it or what.”  It was a picture of Howard, Maria, and a young Tony Stark, dated 1976.  Next to them, there was another family.  Sam recognized the woman instantly as Peggy Carter.  She was middle-aged, smiling, standing next to a man Sam didn’t know.  Her husband, probably.  And their children were there, too.  That feeling came back.  A tight sense of grief and anger.  These lives, all shaped and twisted and even ruined by HYDRA.

Fury set the picture to the desk and reached inside the box for the newspapers.  Sam glanced over.  “Whoa, hey.  I know about that.”  It was a paper dated from April 1943 with “MODERN MARVELS” printed across the front.  He took it from Fury, staring at the grainy picture on the front showing the World Exposition of Tomorrow.  “Steve and Bucky went there.  In 1943, right before Bucky shipped out.  Steve told me about it.  That’s where he met Doctor Erskine.  And that was…  It was the first place he and Barnes saw Howard Stark.”  And then it dawned on him.  Barnes was walking along the path of his past, his past with Stark and with Steve.  Maybe…

_The Stark Expo._

_Queens._

* * *

Laura had two kids: Cooper and Lila.  When Clint woke up again, feeling far more grounded and capable, he saw them for the first time.  They were out in the hall.  He could tell from the bright, wide eyes watching him from the shadows.  He knew next to nothing about children, but he was pretty sure Lila was five or six.  Cooper was older, maybe nine or ten.  They both had the same thick, dark brown hair that their mother had, Lila’s neatly braided, Cooper’s mussed, wild, and in need of a trim.  And they had the same beautiful, deep, caring eyes.  They were curious, extremely so, though neither had really been brave enough to come into the room, even as Laura talked about them while she changed Clint’s bandages.  They observed him in awe, but there was also reverence and fear, Cooper with the former and Lila more stricken by the latter.  Neither of them was certain about this.

Frankly, Clint couldn’t blame them.  He wasn’t certain either, not that their situation was smart or safe.  For the first time in his life, he was worried his mere presence was _wrong._   This was a family, an ordinary family with a mother and two kids and a nice house and a _dog_ , for crying out loud.  A great big slobbery cross between a Labrador and something with a lot of fur.  He didn’t belong here, and he was endangering them.  He knew it.  He was pretty sure they knew it, too.

Still, there wasn’t much to be done for it.  He wanted to run, get away before he brought the wrath of HYDRA or worse upon them, but he was rather stuck for the time being.  A day after waking up to Laura’s kind face, gentle hands, and sweet voice, he’d been in a far better state, sitting up for the most part and drinking and feeding himself.  And today, a day after that, he was well enough to stand and leave his sick bed for the first time.  Laura tried to help him up, but with the wounds to his stomach and chest, it was difficult to say the least.  Pain burned up and down his body, and he gasped, sinking back down onto the bed again.  Sweating profusely, he hunched over and breathed heavily, looking past Laura’s worried face to the kids still out in the hallway.  They shouldn’t have to see this.  He hated himself about as much as he hated this situation as he sat there, covered in sweat and shaking.  “Want to try again?” Laura asked after he caught his breath.

“No,” he returned flatly.  She smiled despite that, tenderly and (in a move that was more friendly and intimate than was appropriate for a stranger) wiping the perspiration from his forehead with a damp cloth.  “You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

He’d said that about a million times over the last day.  Laura smiled tightly.  “It’s alright,” she swore yet again.  A million and one times.

“No, it’s not,” he argued around a gasp when an unexpected ripple of agony went up from the stitches in his stomach.  “It’s a pain in the…”  He glanced up at the kids again, barely catching his mouth in time.  Cooper said something he didn’t catch.  Without a hearing aid in his left ear, the world was very lopsided.  He could compensate well enough, he supposed, and he had been since he’d really regained consciousness, but it was…  “It’s a pain, is what it is.”

Her smile turned even tauter.  “Tell me who I can call.”  This was another thing she kept saying.  Imploring, he wanted to think.  It seemed an obvious solution.  Get in touch with the Avengers.   Have someone come to haul his sad, injured ass back to New York ( _like the fucking failure you are_ ).  Remove himself from this situation and spare Laura and her kids any more trouble.  Still, it wasn’t that simple.  With his phone damaged, there was no way he could get in contact with the others securely.  Laura could certainly call them on his behalf.  He trusted her for reasons he couldn’t quite explain.  It went well beyond the simple fact that she knew _nothing_ about him but had still saved his life and abided by his wishes not to call the police.  She had no cause to afford him that level of care or respect, but she had, seemingly without even a second thought.  Nobody had ever done that for him before, not even Natasha.  He’d had to earn Natasha’s belief in him and her trust, and they hadn’t been easily won.  Comparing Laura to Natasha, though, was like comparing apples and oranges.  They were nothing alike.  This… _blind faith_ Laura had in him bothered and unnerved him, but he found it merited much of the same on his part, as if he owed that to her and he couldn’t help himself.

In the time since he’d awoken, he’d learned things about her in bits and pieces.  She was recently divorced.  She didn’t like to talk about it, which suggested it had been painful or ugly or both.  Maybe it was an inherent need to believe the best of about her, but any man who’d walk out on this, who’d _hurt_ her so much that someone so bright and beautiful clammed up hard at the mere mention of her destroyed relationship, had to be a tremendous asshole.  She was overwhelmed by raising two kids and running this small farm by herself.  She let herself look tired when she thought no one was watching her.  She loved her children fiercely, and they loved her back.  She was halfway through the most raggedy, well-worn copy of _Gone With the Wind_ in existence.  All her clothes were also well-worn, modest and practical, and she didn’t wear much make-up.  She was smart, sweet, but she had a dry sense of humor that he appreciated.  And she was a wonderful cook.  The last time he’d had food like this, he’d been ten years old sitting at the kitchen table, horsing around with Barney while their mother laughed because their father was gone out with his friends so the household was airy and happy.

In fact, _everything_ about this place and her reminded him so much of home.  He knew he’d had some hazy hallucination about a night in his youth when he and Barney had snuck back into their rooms after going out too late with some of Barney’s friends.  Maybe that had meant something more because simultaneously he felt he was where he belonged and a driving need to get the hell away before he spread his darkness some place where it should never go.  Laura was smart and sweet, but she had _no idea_ what sort of danger they were in.  And he _did_ trust her to call the Avengers.  It was these unprotected phone lines he didn’t trust, not with HYDRA somehow still so embedded in everything.  Not with Strucker or Duquesne or whoever the fuck he was probably still out there, hunting him.  So she kept asking him, and he kept giving the same answer.  “No.  Not… not here.”

Her face fractured in dismay yet again, but she didn’t press.  She never did.  Even in this she respected him.  “Come on,” she said after a beat.  “Let’s try again.  You’d feel better once you’re cleaned up.”

That did sound nice.  She’d given him a sponge bath or two over the last few days, but he could smell how rank he was.  It would be good not to be fermenting in his own sweat and blood.  So with a groan and determination for her sake more than anything, he pushed himself up again with her help.  Dizziness assailed him anew, but he clenched his teeth against the acid burning the back of his throat and suffered through it.  She was steadying him.  “Easy,” she soothed.  “I’ve got you.”  She had an arm around his waist, strong and sure.  “Easy.”

“Don’t want… want to…  Well…” he gasped, giving something of a crooked smile that did nothing to lessen the grimace on his face or hide how positively green he was.

“You won’t,” she said with a bit of a laugh.  “And it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been puked on.  Not by an Avenger, admittedly.”  He laughed too, and out in the hall, he saw Cooper smile.  “Take a step when you’re ready.”

It took another few seconds of breathing deeply, in through his nose and out through his mouth, before he was.  Then he shuffled forward, barefoot on an old rug under the bed.  Laura went with him, supporting his every move.  It got easier and more tolerable (either that or he was going numb), and he was out in the hall in short order.

There were the kids.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this close to one.  He’d saved a few here and there, both as a SHIELD agent and as an Avenger.  Carried them to safety or protected their escape from whatever menace was threatening them.  This was… new.  “Hi,” he managed, his voice thick from nausea and pain.

Lila didn’t answer, hiding behind her brother.  She was wearing leggings and a floral print dress over a long sleeve shirt.  Cooper had on jeans that were dirty and thinned out at the knees and a _Transformers_ sweater.  “H-hi,” he returned.

“Thanks for lending me your blanket,” Clint said, turning a little to glance back at the rumpled _Transformers_ sheets and quilt on the bed.   At least he hadn’t bled on these.  “More of a Decepticon lover myself, but if I had to choose an Autobot, it would be Optimus Prime.”

Cooper’s eyes widened.  “You know about Transformers?”

Clint smiled.  “’Course I do.  I was a little older than you when they came out.  My brother and I had all kinds.”  Cooper gawked at him, and Clint struggled with it for a moment.  No one had ever looked at him like that, with unabashed shock and amazement.  It was almost worshipful, like this kid was seeing some kind of hero right in front of him when Clint was anything but.  He was seeing Hawkeye, an Avenger, not a murderer for hire.  He had to fight hard not to look away, instead swallowing through a dry throat and smiling more because that was what he was supposed to do, right?  “I’m Clint.”

Cooper gawked even more, flabbergasted at an introduction.  “Okay,” he said.

“Cooper,” Laura said softly, smiling herself at the exchange but struggling a little with Clint’s weight, “can you get a few towels?  Lila, move, honey.”

The kids shuffled aside so they could move down the hallway toward the bathroom.  Clint tried to maintain a brave façade, both for the kids’ sake and Laura’s, but he couldn’t force it.  Walking after so many days practically unconscious and with such grievous injuries was too difficult.  Laura’s grip faltered as he unwillingly placed more of his weight on her, but just as he was about to stagger, he felt another arm wrap around his waist.  He forced open eyes that he’d squeezed shut to find Cooper right there at his other side.  The kid looked up at him, curly brown hair so shaggy it was nearly in his eyes, and for a moment it was obvious he was afraid he’d overstepped his bounds.  He nodded, though it took a great deal of effort (and emotional fortitude, because this kid’s hands on him felt even _more wrong_ , too much like purity against filth.  That was pretty self-deprecating, but damn if it didn’t stick with him).  He met Cooper’s gaze with a mixture of surprise, gratitude, and uncertainty.  “Thanks again, buddy.”  That came shockingly easy.

The kid _beamed._   “Okay.”

They made it to the bathroom.  Cooper let go so his mother could help Clint limp through the narrow door easier.  The bathroom was about as old-fashioned as the rest of the house, old but clean tiles and wood paneling.  Laura helped him sit on the tub.  “Cooper, the towels please.  And then take Lila downstairs for a while, huh?  Let’s give Mr. Barton some privacy.”

Cooper seemed reluctant to leave, but he did.  Lila lingered at the door, peeking in uncertainly.  It was hard for Clint to catch his breath; that seemingly short walk had completely worn him out.  He got it under control, though, and grinned again.  “Hi… honey.”  Was that what he was supposed to call her?  Sweetie?  Something like that.

Lila just stared at him with eyes as wide as saucers, mute with fear and suspicion.  Laura reached over and ran a hand down her head.  At that she came closer, only to clutch Laura’s leg.  “Don’t mind her.  She’s just not too keen on strangers.”

Clint wiped a shaking hand down his face to clear away the sweat.  “Well, that’s alright.  Neither am I.”  He gave another feeble grin at the set of brown eyes staring at him from behind the safety of Laura.  Laura smiled reassuringly at Lila, but the child still came no closer.  Cooper returned with the towels then, setting them on the vanity, before reaching his hand out to his sister.  Lila lingered a moment more until Cooper got close enough for her to feel sufficiently safe to move away.  Laura closed the bathroom door once they were gone.

Clint slumped in weariness.  “I’m sorry,” he groaned again.  At this point, he was no longer sure what he was apologizing for.  He just knew he needed to apologize.  A lot.

“Don’t worry about them.  Coop’s been waiting for three days just to talk to you.”  She grabbed an open first aid kit off the counter.  “And Lila’s…  I wasn’t kidding.  She doesn’t like strangers.”

“Nothing stranger than some crazy bastard passing out on your front porch,” he ground out.  He probably should have hid how much he hurt better, but he couldn’t; it was too hard.  And with Laura, for whatever reason, he didn’t feel like he needed to.  After all, she’d seen him at his lowest, dragged him up and out of a pool of his own blood to save his life.  Still…  “Just… help me get dressed.  I’ll get out of here.”

She gave him an irritated look.  “Sure, you will.  Where are you going to go?  With all due respect, you’re still in pretty bad shape.  And you know the cops have been out looking for you.”  He grimaced.  As soon as he’d been cognizant enough to think fairly clearly, he’d realized that was probably an inevitability.  Knowing his fears were proving true only made that pit of guilt inside his body twist tighter.  Not only had she endangered her family, gone through the trauma of saving his life, and exposed her children to the evil from which he’d barely escaped, she was harboring a fugitive.  “They haven’t been here,” she assured.  “And it’s not as if they’re out conducting a manhunt as far as I know.  But a friend called and let it slip that they’re questioning people in town.  Now do you want my help to wash?”

She waited for his answer.  He was too overwhelmed to do much more than nod.  She crouched in front of him, her nimble fingers going to work on the buttons of the shirt he wore.  Probably something of her ex-husband’s.  She obviously still had a lot of his clothes around.  Had he just up and left so suddenly that he hadn’t bothered to even take his things?  What sort of bastard did that?  Clint was so caught up in that, those thoughts and the weird emotions they were invoking, that he barely heard her go on.  “I offered you our home as long as you need it to get back on your feet.  I knew the risks, and I’m not going to kick you out now.”  She ran the bath water behind him, grabbing a few washcloths and wetting them.  She lathered them with soap and then set to undoing the bloodied bandages.  “You’re an Avenger, so I know there are things you probably can’t tell me.  But I’d like to know the truth.  Not everything, but at least enough to know if I’m…”  She faltered and tried to smile.  “What happened to you?”

Clint winced.  He didn’t know what to say.  How the hell could he explain to her what he was?  Who he was?  What he did?  What he’d _done_?  “Someone’s after me.”

She didn’t seem fazed by that, nodding after a moment and continuing to unwind the gauze around his chest.  It came away red, and he winced at the damage.  There were slashes and bruises, tender and inflamed with the earliest hints of healing.  Some she’d stitched, neat and precise rows of black thread stark and ugly against the red flesh they were meant to hold together.  The worst was the wound on his abdomen, just to the right and above his navel.  It was long and deep.  And there was more, too.  Scars from so many fights past.  Aged marks on his skin, reminders of people who he’d killed or who’d nearly killed him.  Some were faint, silvery lines and ridges, and others were reddened and vicious, stark on the skin of his breast and shoulders and back.  He hadn’t looked at himself, really _looked_ , in what felt like a long time.  It was shocking and disturbing, how his body displayed the story of his rough life for all to see.  A map of his miseries.  A lifetime of fighting and murder.  He didn’t want her to see.  Shame prickled through him, and he opened his mouth to apologize again.

But she’d already seen it, of course.  She had for days, even if he was just realizing now.  She wasn’t deterred or even disgusted.  And she rubbed the washcloth gently over his wounds, new and old, cleansing his skin of the sweat and dried blood.  She was careful, so tender and light, and warm water sluiced slowly down his body as she worked.  “I figured that,” she finally said in the thick silence.  “Someone bad?”

 _Bad.  Very bad._   He swallowed thickly and nodded.  “That’s why I can’t stay here,” he insisted.

“The news is saying there were a bunch of bodies found not far from here.  Was that you?”  What sense was there in lying?  He nodded again.  “Could this man who’s after you…  Maybe he’s one of them?”

“I doubt it.”  He closed his eyes and sucked in a harsh breath through his teeth when she washed a particularly sore spot between two ribs.  It _was_ possible he’d killed Duquesne, but somehow… he just knew the bastard was still alive, still hunting him.  Anything else would be too simple, too easy.  And even if he was dead among the HYDRA thugs he’d killed on Murray’s farm, there was no way to know.  The risk was too great.

For him, anyway.  Why couldn’t she see the danger she was in?  “No one’s come here looking for you,” she assured.

“Doesn’t matter,” he returned tightly.  “If he’s out there, he’ll find me.”

She rinsed the washcloth before returning to her work, standing to wipe at his shoulders.  “Who?”  He lowered his head.  Laura knew _less_ about him than Natasha or Steve or Sam, less than all of the Avengers, yet he felt the most ashamed of what he had been right here and now in her presence than he ever had before.  She sensed his reluctance, gentling her touch even further.  She took a rinse cup that had Winnie the Pooh on it and filled it with warm water.  “Is it…”  Now she hesitated.  “Is it Barney?”  Clint couldn’t stop the shudder wracking over him.  Anger and grief sent the room spinning.  A sense of vulnerability, of _exposure_ , left him throbbing.  Immediately she pulled away.  “I’m sorry.  I just…  You’ve been talking a lot in your sleep.”

He got himself under control.  Words came out of the darkness in his head.  _“You need to pull the trigger, kid.  You can’t have this sort of power if you don’t know how to use it.  Kill or be killed.”_

_“Are you out of your fucking mind, Clint?  Come on.  Come with me.  It doesn’t have to be like–”_

“Clint?”

“No, it’s not Barney.”  His voice was quick, harsh with pain.  Harsher and harder than he intended.

Her face tightened, maybe with hurt but definitely with concern.  “Tip your head back a little.  Let me know if it’s too much.”  Mindlessly he did, and he jerked in surprise when the warm water from the cup ran through his hair.  He tensed with the unusualness of it all – of someone else washing his hair – but the heat felt so good on his scalp, so soothing.  He couldn’t stop a long, appreciative breath from escaping him, and he let his eyes slip shut.  _I don’t deserve this.  I don’t deserve anything.  I don’t…_

_“Take what you want when you want it.  That’s the way of the world.”_

_“Clint, please.  Please.  Please shoot him!  Come on!  Please!”_

The scent of shampoo struck his nose, and her fingers were like magic in his hair.  She rubbed and lathered and worked, washing away the matted blood and dirt she hadn’t been able to clean before.  It felt marvelous, a simple, intimate pleasure he’d never experienced before, and he melted into her hands.  “You with me?” she asked softly.  She was purposefully standing on his good side so he could hear her better.

He realized he’d been leaning more and more into her, chasing her closeness.  That jolted him out of the pleasant haze.  “Sorry.”

She smiled, but it wasn’t quite as confident as before.  He could have hit himself.  Who the hell did he think he was, acting like this?  He sniffed and made himself sit up more fully as she rinsed him clean.  _This isn’t your place,_ he reminded himself.  This wasn’t about comfort or feeling good.  It was about getting himself fixed up as much as he could so he could get the hell away before Duquesne or HYDRA caught up with him and these innocent people suffered the consequences.  He was talking before he thought to stop himself, subconsciously summoning up some professionalism.  She deserved an answer, an explanation.  “The man after me is the same man who attacked the GSIS4.  He’s… he’s a really bad guy.  We’ve… the Avengers, that is.  We’ve been fighting HYDRA for months now, and he’s near the top of the food chain.”

She seemed surprised, not so much by the information but by the fact he’d been open about it.  Even though it wasn’t the entire story, it felt good to tell her.  She took a towel and rubbed his hair and face dry.  Then she crouched again and went to work getting his pajama pants off.  “I saw the attack on the news.  What brought you out here?”

If she saw the news, then, again, there was no reason to lie.  “Captain America’s badly hurt.  My teammate and I came out here to find someone who can help him.  HYDRA ambushed us, and I stayed behind to hold them off.”

She could have pressed him for information about Steve, for the sort of knowledge for which someone would pay handsomely given what a media frenzy this was.  But she didn’t, of course.  “Okay.”  She started washing his feet.  His calves.  His thighs.  He jerked in more than just discomfort.  “What can I do to help you?”

He heaved a sigh.  “I don’t know.  Not much.  At this point, Cap’s probably dead.”  It hurt to say that.  It _fucking_ hurt.

But she only shook her head.  “I don’t think so.  I haven’t been following along with all this that much.  Been busy with you.”  She gave a teasing smile, just a hint of one.  “But I heard Black Widow said some things to the press yesterday that suggest he’s alive at least.  She’s married to him, right?  I don’t keep up with the gossip, and it seems kinda wrong and creepy in a voyeuristic sort of way, especially considering what you guys do for the world and especially since she’s pregnant – I’m rambling, aren’t I.”

Clint gaped at her, uncertain how to feel about any of that.  It was such a tumult of emotions that it was nearly impossible to sort it all.  Certainly (and _of course_ ) he was glad Steve was still alive (although he had no idea _how_ that was possible.  The “a few days if we’re lucky” timeframe had expired a day ago).  But Natasha was talking to the press?  Since when?  And, God, he felt fucking _jealous_ again.  For the first time in _months_.  It was so damn petty, but he couldn’t help it.  He was well over the fact that Natasha had fallen in love with Steve, over the fact she’d chosen him (for God’s sake, he’d _told_ her to choose Steve over and over again), over the fact Steve had gotten her pregnant and married her.  Still, there was something about this, the fact that Black Widow’s relationship with Captain America was tabloid fodder and social media gold, and it didn’t take much for him to realize what it was.  It wasn’t the fact that Natasha was with Steve, _happy_ and _in love_ with Steve.

It was the fact that, to Laura and the rest of the American public, Clint’s five year partnership and friendship and everything else he’d had with her simply didn’t exist.  Everything he’d done for her, maybe the only good he’d really ever done for anyone, _didn’t exist._

“Clint, I want to do what I can to help you.”  Laura’s soft voice drew him from his thoughts.  She was crouching in front of him again, those dark brown eyes fathomless.  Her thin lips pulled into a frown as she wiped the remaining moisture from his chest.  “If that means keeping you here until you feel well enough to leave, then I’ll do it.  If it means calling your team, I’ll do that, too.  I’ll do what I can for you.  But I’m not scared of whoever’s chasing you.”

“You should be,” Clint declared, “and you should be scared of me.”

She frowned more.  “Well, I’m not.”  Her voice was obstinate.

He couldn’t quite believe this.  “You don’t know me.”  It wasn’t a reprimand.  Rather, his tone was beset with disbelief.  He trusted her, but that made sense, in a weird way.  She had absolutely _no cause_ to trust him.  How could she not see that?

Her hands lingered on his skin as she dried his chest, neck, and shoulders.  His face.  She was cupping his jaw, soft fingertips against numerous days’ worth of stubble.  “I don’t,” she conceded.  “But whatever it is you’re running from…  Whoever wants to hurt you…  I promised you that my house was safe, and I intend to keep that promise.  You seem like you needed that.  And a friend.”

He stared up at her.  She was so close, so warm, and memories of her hands on his bleeding, broken body flittered through his hazy mind.  There was comfort there.  Exactly what she promised.  _Safety._   And he felt it again now, the press of her fingers against him, the peace of that touch.  Her thumb swept along the angle of his jaw.  It was a tender caress, one that tipped his face up toward her, and he went willingly before he even realized what he was doing.

She realized it, though, and she flushed and let him go.  “Sorry,” she whispered.  The loss of her touch was almost physically painful.  The air turned tense as she finished with washing and drying him.  Then she grabbed the bandages and antibiotic creams and silently worked to dress the worst of his wounds anew.  Clint shivered, left reeling by it all.  “I think it would do you some good to come downstairs.”  After so many minutes in silence, her declaration was thunderous.  “See the rest of the house.  Move around a little and see how you feel.  Eat lunch with us.  Then you can decide what you want to do, whether it’s calling the rest of your friends or turning yourself in or what.”

“Laura,” he said.  But the words wouldn’t come.  He didn’t know what he wanted to tell her.  _Everything._

“You deserve my help,” she said firmly, a note in her tone suggesting the subject wasn’t open for debate.  She finished with the last of the bandages, gathering up the garbage before rising to her full height and tossing it in the trash.  “It’s my choice.  If you don’t like it, you can leave.”  Now she smiled teasingly again, knowing just how capable he was of that at the moment.  Clint sighed, nodding despite his reluctance to all of that.  Her offers.  Her decisions.  Her faith in him.  “And if you feel bad about taking charity, well, I have a slew of home projects that my husband never bothered to finish before he left.  Are you handy?”

He choked out a laugh.  “Not really.”

She grinned that grin he was starting to love.  “Just my luck that you dropped dead on my doorstep instead of Tony Stark.”

He laughed louder.  “You have no idea how true that is.”

“You can tell us all about it over a sandwich.  Now sit tight.  I’ll get you some clean clothes.”

* * *

The last twelve hours had been harrowing, to say the least.  Steve had been clinically dead for well over five minutes before they’d gotten him back.  The whole experience had been a blur of chest compressions and defibrillation and frustrated terror.  The shock they’d all felt when Steve’s heart had suddenly started beating again had been overwhelming, wresting a choked sob from Tony’s lips and a whimper from Natasha.  Bruce had nearly collapsed in relief.  It had been something of a miracle they’d been able to save his life (although Tony supposed it was yet to be seen whether or not this was turning out to be a miracle or a curse).

Now he stood at the door to one of the rooms in the infirmary, watching as Natasha keep vigil at her husband’s side.  She had his hand between hers, her hugely pregnant form pressed as close to the bed as possible.  Steve himself was unconscious, barely clinging to life at all, it seemed.  He wasn’t breathing for himself anymore; shortly after they’d stabilized him after the cryostasis had failed, they’d discovered one of his lungs had collapsed.  Dealing with that had been difficult, but they’d managed to get a chest tube inserted before the situation could get worse.  After, though, Bruce had insisted on artificial respiration.  The machine beside the bed, rhythmically swishing and pushing air into Steve’s lungs through the tube taped in place between his slack lips, was the only thing keeping him alive now.  The monitors around him displayed his vitals, and they looked horrendous.  His pulse was weak and irregular, like the heartbeat they’d barely managed to restore could peter right back out again at any moment.  His blood pressure was abysmally low.  His lungs were barely oxygenating his blood, even with the aid of the ventilator.  His body was doing a poor job at regulating its own temperature, and even with heating pads and cooling blankets, things were swinging wildly.  He was dying, and he looked it.  Where it wasn’t mottled by the internal bruising and bleeding, his skin was ashen.  His eyes were closed now, but on the occasions they did randomly and briefly flutter open, his hold on awareness was fleeting and tenuous.  There was nothing left.

Nothing aside from Natasha, who’d been calm and steadfast since this had happened.  In the hours after, Bruce had examined her carefully for signs that she or the twins had been infected through exposure to Steve.  There’d been none.  Her bloodwork had come back clean yet again, and though he couldn’t run those tests on the twins or examine them physically, they seemed happy and healthy.  He’d insisted she go back on the contraction and fetal heartrate monitors after Steve had been stabilized, and she’d acquiesced for a few hours, but there’d been nothing to see.  Her labor (if it had been real labor to begin with) had stopped.  Bruce was seriously shaken by what happened, and he hadn’t wanted to risk _anything_ else, not the babies getting sick or the stress adversely affecting Natasha.  But he’d conceded the chance of Steve transmitting the virus to Natasha and Natasha then transmitting the virus to the twins was extremely low, perhaps even nonexistent at this point now that she’d been accidentally exposed with no ill effects.  So he’d let her make the decision as to whether she should be in contact with Steve now.  And she’d decided.

In reality, the fact that she was here now, that they’d learned it was safe at least, was the only good thing to come of this.  Tony watched her tenderly caress Steve’s hand, her touch soft and almost fearful.  It could be the product of his exhausted imagination, but he felt like the air was quieter, more serene.  Tranquil with unwavering hope.  Like everything really had been stripped away, and her faith was all that was left.  “Steve?” she whispered.  Maybe she didn’t realize he was there watching her, or maybe she didn’t care to be private anymore, because she carefully pulled his left hand toward her belly.  Tony saw silver twinkle in the lights.  Steve’s wedding ring was back on his finger.  She must have put it there while he’d been gone.  She gasped something that might have been a quiet sob.  “Do you feel that?”  She laid Steve’s palm over the crest of her stomach.  “Right there.”  _Jesus.  I can’t watch this._   He should have left.  At the very least he should have made his presence known.  This wasn’t his place.  He was intruding, and he didn’t deserve to see this.  Not any of it.  But he didn’t go.  “It’s them,” she whispered around a teary smile.  “Our son and daughter.  They’re waiting for you.”

Steve said nothing, did nothing.  He didn’t even open his eyes.  The respirator forced air into his lungs, so his chest moved up and then down, but that was it.  Natasha wasn’t deterred.  “I think that’s him.  You feel it?”  She moved his hand a little to the left.  “He’s been… very anxious the last few hours.  Kicking up a storm.  She’s been quiet, though.  I think she gets that from you.  Always calm in the face of disaster.”  Her voice cracked a little.  It grew softer.  “I… I get it now.  What this means.  They’re our babies.  Yours and mine, like you always said.  Our family.”  Somehow she gathered herself.  “Our babies.  We’re having them.  Two of them.  And I _need_ you with me, so you need to keep fighting.  Don’t give up.  You promised me you would be there.  I need you.  They need you.  They need their father.”  Again, nothing.  Nothing but the swishing and beeping and the godawful silence.  “Please, Steve…  I can’t do this without you.  I can’t.  I don’t want to.  Please fight.  For me and for them.  Please.”

It went on like this, her soft, slow breaths, her hands around his and his limp on her stomach, and the machines counting and pulsing and keeping him alive.  She was watching his face for some sign of awareness.  Tony watched, too.  _Nothing._   He gave a pained breath that was louder than he intended, and Natasha finally noticed his presence.  She turned, one hand releasing Steve’s to wipe at her face.  Tony expected her anger, her wrath at him having seen such a tender, private moment, but there was nothing but soft acceptance.  “I’m sorry,” he stammered all the same.

She nodded to that and turned back to her husband.  She set his hand to the hospital bed, but she didn’t let it go, her thumbs resuming their achingly slow caress over Steve’s knuckles.  Tony could only imagine what this must have been like.  Touch after so long, after so much pain, and in the face of how close they were to losing everything they had.  “Did you want something?” she finally asked.

He did.  He’d come to explain what had happened.  He knew she’d been here for hours, unwilling to leave Steve’s side now that she actually could be at it.  Bruce had made himself scarce as soon as the immediate catastrophe had been resolved, swallowing down his guilt and anger like poison and skulking into Betty’s room where she was recovering.  Tony had been alone, and he’d gone to figure out what had gone wrong.  It had been all he could do, so he’d done it, pouring his exhausted mind and aching body into the task.  And he’d gotten answers.  So he’d returned to tell her, like it mattered now what had happened.  Like anything he could say or do at this point mattered.  Science and technology and logic.  Explanations and understanding.  _Excuses._   “I, um…”  He couldn’t make his voice work, the gravity of everything he needed to say pushing against his useless tongue and numb lips.  Nervously he traded his weight to his other leg, stuffing his useless hands in his jeans pockets.  There was no sense in lying or downplaying this.  “So the power coupling that failed.  I pulled it apart and examined every piece of it.  JARVIS and I did.  And it was damaged before it even got here.  There was a faulty relay inside, inverters that weren’t graded properly for the heat and workload.  Probably installed by mistake when they built it.  I…  I didn’t bother with an equipment check before I used it.”  That was the worst part of it.  He _hadn’t_ bothered.  Granted, he’d been pressed for time with the virus destroying Steve more and more by the second.  And he’d been exhausted and punch-drunk and desperate to _do_ something.  To prove he could fix this.  _Is that what it came down to?  You fucking son of a bitch._

He sniffled, feeling himself falling apart and not being able to do a damn thing to stop it now.  Pepper had come to him in the mess in the cryostasis room some time ago (hours, probably, but it felt like _days_ ).  He wasn’t being entirely truthful with Natasha.  He’d pulled the _entire fucking machine_ apart, not just the power converter.  Every nut and screw and pipe and circuit board.  He’d examined every piece of it, looking for the mistakes.  Pepper had stood in the midst of the whirlwind of his guilt and watched before pulling him into a tight hug, trying so hard to anchor him as he sank deeper and deeper into a mire of depression and guilt.  Even she hadn’t been strong enough.  _This_ was the only way to escape it, and he knew it.  Come before the woman he’d wronged so badly.  Beg her forgiveness.  So if he fucking fell apart, then he fell apart.  He deserved no less than that, than all the shame and self-deprecation that he could muster for himself, than all the hate and rage she could throw at him.  _This had been his fault._   Completely.  He’d rushed through assembling the equipment, hadn’t performed the safety checks, hadn’t cross-checked with Bruce about the sort of load his calculations would place on the system, hadn’t fucking thought for a moment that his work could be faulty.  He couldn’t live with the guilt, not even as Pepper had run her hands through his hair and shushed him and told him he wasn’t to blame.  Not even as she tried to hold him together as she always had and always would.  He’d nearly shaken to pieces in her arms.

Now he was shaking to pieces in front of Natasha.  “There wasn’t time,” he whispered, eyes wide and voice reduced to nothing.  “There wasn’t time to simulate it.  I should have made time.  I should have…  I didn’t think, and everything was running okay, and the monitoring equipment would have caught it maybe if I’d talked with Bruce before we started the last sequence of temperature drops.  But I didn’t, so it’s my fault.  All of it.  Everything.”  His eyes darted to Steve, but it was too much to see him like this, unconscious and on fucking _life support_ with his pregnant wife at his bedside crying and pleading with him to keep fighting…  Tony looked away, down to his sneakers, and the world blurred.  “It’s my fault he’s like this.  It’s my fault the twins are going to lose their… lose him…  That you’re going to…  I – I…  Oh, fuck, Natasha.  I’m so sorry.  I’m so sorry!  I…  I killed him!  Jesus, I killed him…”

Suddenly she was there, moving with surprising speed and grace considering how big and exhausted she was.  He flinched when her hands took his shoulders, wanting to scream and run and just melt down into nothing and no one.  Her grip was maybe a tad tentative at first, but it turned firm.  Comforting.  And she was stiff and wary at first, too, but she overcame her hesitation and doubt and tugged him closer.  Tony went.  This was the first time they’d touched like this.  They’d always been a bit tense around each other, not quite trusting, not quite comfortable.  Him with his attitude and her with her less than honest past.  Right here and now, though, the walls between them had come down. 

With that, Tony lost it.  He lost it completely.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so low, so damaged and useless.  Afghanistan.  Nearly losing Pepper, but even with that he’d been able to get her back (or she’d gotten herself back, frankly, but he’d been instrumental in defeating Killian, at any rate).  There wasn’t going to be a happy ending to this, and he knew it.  It made his stomach clench in nauseous knots and his throat tighten around the sobs pouring from it.  He’d have let go with Pepper – he almost had – but as much as he loved Pepper and craved her forgiveness and understanding, she couldn’t erase his guilt.  Only Natasha could.  And she stood strong, awkwardly rubbing a hand down his back as he cried against her.  Their tentative connection, the peace they’d made with each other, didn’t really broker something like this.  But here they were.  “It’s alright,” she promised.  Her tone suggested otherwise for a moment, but she drew a deep breath and strengthened it.  “It’s alright.  It wasn’t your fault, Tony.  It…  It was an accident.”

Tony coughed a rough laugh into her shoulder.  There was nothing he could say.  And there was nothing she could, either.  That sad realization sunk into him.  She couldn’t grant him absolution.  Maybe she could assure him this wasn’t his fault, and maybe she wasn’t blaming him for the accident (either of them – what a _fucked up_ situation this was).  But she couldn’t lift his guilt.  Nothing and no one could.

Still, he had to admit he felt better.  He pulled away, wiping a shaking hand down his face.  She was slow to let him go, her hands lingering on his shoulders, then on his face.  “I’m–”

“Sorry.”  Tony turned at the new voice to find Maria at the door.  Then he moved away from Natasha like lightning shooting from a cloud, embarrassed as all hell to be seen like this.  He forced his burning eyes to focus on Steve, forced himself to get it together.  Maria seemed to hesitate out of awkward uncertainty, but then she went on.  “I have some news.  Thor’s back.”

That made Tony turn around again in a hurry, a deep breath and a jolt energy enough for him to gather the frayed ends of his composure.  Natasha was staring at Maria with wide eyes.  “He is?”

Hill nodded, not looking nearly excited or relieved enough for the news to be good.  “He’s on his way down.  I assume he’ll have something to tell us.”

Though it was premature and patently foolish to be at all hopeful, Tony couldn’t help himself.  “I’ll get Banner,” he declared, desperate just to get out of there so he could pull himself together better.  He didn’t wait for a response from Romanoff or Hill, instead walking briskly from the hospital room and heading down the short corridor of the medical floor to where he knew Bruce was in hiding.  It was the last door on the left, and where the lights were somehow so bright and the air peaceful and calm inside Steve’s room, here everything was dark and tense.  He paused at the closed door, looking inside and seeing Bruce hunched beside Betty’s bed.  It took him a moment to muster up the courage to deal with this.  He didn’t need Bruce’s added problems right now.  No one did.

But, again, here they were.

For a split second the fear of startling Bruce into transforming into the Hulk crashed across his thoughts, so he knocked before entering.  Banner lifted his head, his hair mussed, his face unshaven and haggard.  He looked like he was on the edge.  _Christ.  Not now._   Tony opened the door and slowly stepped inside.  This was the first time in as long as they’d been friends that he was actually scared of Bruce.  Scared of what he could do if he lost control.  This was the first time it had sunk home, how dangerous the Hulk really was.  Somehow before it had been something innocuous, a distant trouble they could overcome with science and reasoning.  Build Veronica.  Learn to get a handle on the monster.  Solve the problem.  Put the demons to rest.  Tony should have learned by now that it was impossible to put some demons to rest.  “How is she?” he asked after an uncomfortably long moment of silence.

Bruce scrubbed a hand through his hair, sniffling, eyes wet and tormented.  “She has a pretty serious concussion.  But she’s alright, I think.  Just sleeping.  I wanted to do a CT scan, but she refused.  She’s right.  I’m probably overreacting.”

Tony nodded.  “You do have a tendency to do that.”  He tried to keep that statement light.  He failed.

“I want her to leave when she feels well enough to go.  I can finish up our work without her,” Bruce declared firmly.  “This was a bad idea to begin with.  I should have known better, listened to myself.  I knew it was dangerous.  She needs to be someplace safe, and that’s not here.”  His tone turned dark, his eyes narrowed menacingly.  “I swore to myself I’d never let her get hurt again because of me, that I’d _never_ see her like this again.”

Tony didn’t feel good about the way Bruce said that.  Furthermore, he didn’t like the idea at all, not so much for the prospect of losing Betty’s knowledge and expertise in finishing the antiserum, but for the calming effect she had on Banner.  Seeing Natasha stop the Hulk had been incredible, but Tony had a feeling it had been a one-time blessing.  Natasha had said she’d figured out how to do that technique, touching the Hulk’s hand like that, from seeing Betty do it.  They _needed_ Betty.

But he couldn’t argue this.  It wasn’t his call.  Bruce sighed, pulling himself from his anger.  “How’s Steve?”

He couldn’t answer that, either.  It was too painful, and Bruce already knew the truth anyway.  “Thor’s here.  He just got here.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed at that like he couldn’t understand.  Truth be told, Tony had rather forgotten about the Asgardian himself with everything that had gone on over the last couple of days.  “Hopefully he came back with a miracle,” Bruce said wearily.

That pissed Tony off.  Even as low as he was, even if he knew he should, he just couldn’t accept defeat.  Or pessimism.  Admitting he’d screwed up was one thing.  Admitting the battle was lost?  That they couldn’t _fix_ this?  Something else entirely.  “Well, if he didn’t, we’ll have to come up with one on our own.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched.  “I _really_ don’t want to hear it.”

It was a bad idea, provoking Bruce like this _now_ of all times, but he was going to do it.  Bad ideas, crazy ass, stupid, impulsive, _dangerous_ ideas were a specialty of his, and it made him feel alive to believe there was still a chance.  “You can’t quit now.  We’re all they have.”

“Don’t you _dare_ tell me this isn’t over.”

This had been building for months, Bruce’s doubt and self-hatred and withering control, though Tony hadn’t imagined it exploding like this.  Somehow it was easier to call everything that had happened an accident in this room, where Betty lay unconscious from a blow to the head, than in Steve’s room, where he lay dying because of a freak chain of unfathomable events.  They _needed_ to do that, because the tangled mess of Bruce’s issues with the Other Guy had to be put on the back burner right now.  They _had_ to be.  So he dared.  It was a dick move, a _shitty_ card to play, but he fucking well played it.  “It’s not.  Steve’s not dead, and he needs you.  Natasha needs you.  Those babies that you think are something good and pure you helped care for?  _They_ need their father to be okay and their mother not to have her heart broken.  Ergo, they need you.  So let’s go and see what Thor has to say and figure out what we’re going to do now.”

Bruce’s eyes flashed, and for an awful second, Tony thought he’d pushed too far.  On top of everything, Bruce’s need to protect Natasha and watching Steve slowly die while not being able to save him and Betty getting caught in the crossfire and the freaking monster inside him that could have killed them all and leveled the Tower, on top of _all of that_ , Tony had wielded Bruce’s own conscience against him.

But it was alright.  Bruce released a long breath, the tension visibly easing from his form, and nodded wearily.  He stood from the plastic chair beside Betty’s bed, carefully pulling the blanket up and over her sleeping form.  There was an awful bruise on the side of her head, huge and angry-looking, but other than that her face was peaceful and seemingly free of pain.  He carefully brushed the bangs from her brow.  “JARVIS?”

“I will alert you if anything changes, Doctor Banner,” the AI assured.

That was enough to get Bruce moving.  Together the two of them left Ross’ room and headed back to Rogers’.  Natasha had stepped outside with Hill.  At their approach, Maria nodded.  Their small group waited a minute or two longer, and then Thor appeared.

The Asgardian was dressed in his traditional leather battle armor, red cape fluttering behind him.  At seeing them, his frown deepened.  “I pray I am not too late,” he declared as he briskly walked closer.  Though he swept his gaze over all of them in greeting, his blue eyes focused firmly on Natasha, on the bulge of her stomach, on the dolor in her eyes she wasn’t capable of hiding.  “Am I?”

Nobody answered, so Tony took charge.  “No.  Cap’s still alive, but there’s not much time.  So tell me you have some good news.”

Thor’s face fractured in dismay and grief, and that was enough to stomp out any hope.  “Nay,” he murmured sadly.  “I wish I did.  I apologize profusely for the delay.  Heimdall’s sight is being… obfuscated somehow.  He could not see the Winter Soldier even after I convinced him to try.”

That simply didn’t compute in Tony’s brain.  “What?”

“I know not, but I fear there is evil afoot in the Nine Realms.  Dark magic capable of affecting Heimdall’s all-seeing eyes.  A fog that hides evil.  I cannot explain it.  And I was summoned to councils to discuss this unfortunate twist of events, which compounded my tardiness.  But that is not wholly the reason why I was so slow to return.”  As if that wasn’t odd and overwhelming enough.  Thor released a long breath.  His huge hand, sinewy and strong, curled comfortingly around Natasha’s shoulder.  “I went before the Allfather and pled the case that Steven should receive Asgardian medicine.”  Tony could practically see the hope unwittingly blossom in Natasha’s eyes.  She tried to stop herself because she knew better, but it was impossible when you were this raw and hurt and afraid not to cling to any chance.  Thor sighed.  “My arguments were not favorably met.  Asgardian law generally prohibits intervention on behalf of mortals with the belief that special treatment of one would merit the same treatment of all.  Still, I insisted the matter be discussed with the eir.  My father granted that request, but he ultimately refused to allow any aid to be rendered, no matter how I tried to argue Steve’s worthiness.”  There was anger coloring Thor’s tone.  Anger and a great deal of frustration.

“Did you tell him that Captain America saved his precious Tesseract from destroying Midgard not once but _twice_?” Tony spat, unable to control his vitriol.

Thor stared at him hotly, and any doubt that his trip home hadn’t frayed his temper disappeared.  “Yes.  I was not believed.  My father… has not been the same since my mother was murdered.  Loki’s death at the hands of Malekith has only compounded his foul temper.  He has little love in his heart now for matters outside his kingdom.”  He turned to Natasha again and very boldly drew her into his embrace.  She actually went without stiffening, without a struggle.  “I am so sorry.  So very sorry.  My heart aches with the pain you are enduring.”  Natasha closed her eyes and let herself be held.  Nobody spoke for a moment.  Eventually Thor pulled away, cupping her face in his hands and pressing a very gentle, brotherly kiss to her brow.  “On my honor, you shall want for nothing.  Neither you nor your children.”

Hearing that made Tony sick.  And he wasn’t the only one.  Maria was pale, eyes full of grief, as she softly asked, “So where does that leave us?”  She was looking directly at Bruce.

Bruce practically bristled with the attention.  It was becoming more and more apparent that he was absolutely worn to the bone.  “At the end of the line.”  Angry stares were shot in his direction.  He looked frustrated and helpless.  “Guys, I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“What of my blood?  Can it be used?” Thor asked.

Bruce’s eyes glazed in thought for a moment, but it wasn’t long enough to be anything more than dismissal.  “I don’t know.  Asgardian physiology is too different from human physiology to even hazard a guess.  Even if it could, there’s no time.  Steve’s not going to make it much longer.”

“What of that metal he used to save Barton?”

“It doesn’t work on you.  For anyone else it would be a huge risk.  Plus Steve would need to be conscious to use it–”

“He’s had moments,” Natasha murmured quietly as though in some sort of weak defiance.

Bruce didn’t stop.  “–and I don’t know if it would heal anything or just postpone the inevitable.”

Aggravation burned through Tony.  “What about Wilson?  Any word from him?”

Maria pressed her lips tightly together in a frown.  “I got in touch with them about an hour ago.  They have a lead on Barnes, but it’s a longshot.  I told them to hurry.”

“Clint?” Natasha asked quietly.

Maria shook her head apologetically.  “Nothing.  Sam doesn’t know where he is.”

Thor squinted in confusion.  “Barton is missing as well?”

“Listen,” Bruce quickly said, “the only options at this point are the antiserum we derived from the Hulk and…”  He hesitated, looking at Natasha.  Tony knew what he was going to say before he said it.  Knew it and hated it.  They were back to this.  Somehow they were.  “… and using one or both of the twins to get a pure sample of the serum, as we thought we could before all of this happened.  The Hulk antiserum is practically ready.  But I don’t know if it will work, and, frankly…”  He sighed and looked miserably torn.  “We can only try one.  I don’t think there’s time to attempt both, especially not if we need to go through delivery to even get at the samples we need from the babies.  And the procedure is going to require us to try and kill Steve’s immune system as much as we can beforehand.  I don’t think he will survive two attempts at that and two infusions of new immune cells.”  He winced and shook his head.  “Can’t believe it’s come to this.”

Nobody could.  The silence that followed was vicious, cold, and without an answer.  Bruce eventually sighed, all the anger and irritation vanishing from his face.  He stepped closer to Natasha.  “It’s your call,” he reminded quietly.  “Anything we can derive from the twins will have a far greater chance of working.  But… you know the dangers.  They’re the same as they were before.  I’d have to perform a C-section.  In order to collect the amount of the serum we’d need, we’d be putting them both at risk.  There’s no time anymore, so stem cells are off the table.  We’d need blood.  A lot of blood.  Marrow, even.”

Natasha closed her eyes.  She seemed to buckle under the weight of it.  Everyone was watching her.  Tony couldn’t fathom what this was like, what facing the choice between the life of your spouse over the safety of your children could do to a person.  It was unconscionable.  It was unthinkable.  And no one could make this decision but her.  She was Steve’s wife.  The mother of Steve’s children.  No one else could decide.

Finally, after an eternity of crushing quiet, she spoke.  Her answer wasn’t what he’d expected.  “I want to talk to Steve.”

That seemed equal parts desperate and delusional.  Tony was numb and lost enough in his own guilt that he didn’t think to say that.  Bruce did, however, although he did so gently.  “Steve’s too out of it to understand, Natasha, even if he could answer you, which he can’t.”

“He’s had moments,” she replied firmly.  “Moments where he’s been awake.  I want to talk to him.  I need to ask him.”  There was no anger in her voice, no derision.  A simple statement of fact.  She walked away.

Tony ached to help her.  It was hot and painful.  “Natasha, wait–”

“Let her go, Tony,” Bruce quietly advised, and that stopped him from taking her arm to stop her.  Bruce glanced at him, his expression as pained as Tony (as they _all_ ) felt.  “Whether we try the Hulk serum or use the twins, once we shut down Steve’s immune system, there’s no going back.  No one can have any direct contact with him.  Even the mildest infection would be fatal.  No matter what we do, if we go forward, this… this is it.”

She probably heard that.  But she was still somehow so calm, so _strong_ , as she simply went back to her husband’s side.

* * *

Steve was still trapped in an endless world of white. 

He’d been here a long time.  _So long._   Trapped.  It went on forever, a blank nothingness that had at times been punctuated by fire and ice and nightmare.  He remembered that.  At least, he thought he did.  Pain and terror.  Searing heat and torturing cold.  Hazy images.  Faces.  Past, present, and future, blurred together into a twisted, churning mess.  And other times there’d been silence.  Silence and darkness so deep that nothing could pierce its folds.  A true oblivion.  He’d been there, too.

But now he was back here, and there was nothing but white.  White all around him.  White in front of him, white behind him.  Nothing but endless, formless nothingness.  He’d been walking.  He’d been looking for someone.  _Natasha._   She’d been there with him.  She’d told him to stay with her, to hold onto her, and he hadn’t.  He’d let her go.  How could he have done that again?  How could he have lost her again?  Now she was gone, and he’d been trying to find her.  Trying and running and searching so desperately, screaming her name.  But there was no way out of this place, this prison.  He was lost again.  He’d failed.  He was lost, and she was gone.

It was somehow shocking when his body that had worked so hard to keep going suddenly gave out.  He hit the unforgiving ground hard on his knees, and the impact seemed to shake everything.  He crumpled there, breathing heavily around the rough sobs that were building in his throat.  He wanted to go home.  He wanted this to stop.  He wanted her.  He knew she needed him, and there was no way – _no way_ – to get out of here.  He was supposed to be stronger than this, to keep going, no matter what.  To keep fighting, because that was who he was.  He was Captain America, and Captain America didn’t quit.  He was Steve Rogers, and Steve Rogers _fought_ no matter how hard it was or how much it hurt.  But he just couldn’t anymore.  Here and now, trapped for so long in this place, everything had been stripped away.  Captain America.  Steve Rogers.  He was nothing and nobody, tired and broken.  Devastated.  _Alone._ She was lost to him, and so everything he’d been was gone, too.

So he let his eyes slip shut, let the tears fall and the quiet cries wrack his form.  The silence was overwhelming, just the suck and swish of air between his lips like wind, the thudding thunder of his heart.  Lightning crashed, crackling through his body.  Somehow, it didn’t hurt.  And somehow he heard her call.

“Steve.”

He opened his eyes, and she was _there_ again.  The world of white was filling with heavy clouds, dark but not as ominous as they could be, and she was standing right in front of him.  Beautiful, dressed in shimmering, flowing white that shone brilliantly like undisturbed snow against a gray sky.  The wind brushed through the waves of her red hair.  Her eyes were blue and green.  Calm.  And she smiled tenderly.  A balm to his aching soul.

He hadn’t had to find her.  She’d come to him.

“Steve…”  She reached her hand out to him.  He swallowed down the pain, the despair, _everything_ that had been threatening him, and pushed himself to his feet.  He closed the distance between them.  He would take these last steps, no matter how exhausted he was.  And he took her hand.  It was warm, soft, strong.  Everything he remembered.  She gently pulled him closer before turning back to the clouds.  “There’s a storm coming,” she said.  “Can you feel it?”

He saw it and heard it.  He felt it.  He wasn’t afraid anymore.

“Steve?  Can you open your eyes?”

The grip on his hand tightened, and this time he really did _open_ his eyes.  He was awake.  That went through him in a pleasant roll of warm surprise.  He had to blink a few times, because nothing was in focus.  “That’s it, baby.  Look at me.”  There was a shadow standing beside him, a blurry form with fire around its head.  Not fire.  Thick, red hair, mussed and loose.  Eyes that were blue and green and teeming with barely controlled tears.  Lush lips pulled into a weak smile.  _Natasha._ “Hi,” she whispered.

Natasha was here.  He was awake, and she was _here._

“Shh,” she hushed.  His body had begun squirming of its own accord, nerves that were battered and damaged firing in uncoordinated spasms.  He felt things.  Pain.  Weakness.  Dizziness so strong it almost yanked him back down into unconsciousness.  _Something_ in his mouth and down his throat.  “Don’t fight it.  It’s helping you breathe.  It’s alright.  It’s alright.”

It wasn’t.  He couldn’t talk.  He could hardly move.  His body felt… wrong, detached, numb.  Fading.  He knew this feeling.  He knew it because he’d felt it so many times before.  It felt like being sick.  Really sick.  He was a child again, limp and suffering in his mother’s arms while she prayed for him.  The world was far away and hazy, not in focus because he wasn’t entirely in it.  Halfway, maybe, between this world and the next.  Life and whatever was beyond it.

Natasha was still there, though, her hands tight around his, smiling a comforting smile, and that brought him back.  Grounded him.  Anchored him here and now.  Memories pieced together in his head with great effort.  He’d gotten infected somehow, some sort of alien virus.  He was dying.  The Avengers were trying to save him.  They’d tried to freeze him to stop him from getting worse.  They’d tried to save him.

But they couldn’t.  They’d failed.  Something had gone wrong, and now it was too late.  He wasn’t sure of anything, not what had happened, not what was real and what had been nightmare, but he was sure of this.  He could feel it inside, in his skin and blood and brain and bones.  In his heart.  There was no way to save him.  For the first time since he’d been flooded with the serum, since it had turned him from who he had been to who he was, he could feel his body _rejecting_ it.  It was an awful sensation, a slow, grinding pain as his greatest strength degraded to poison inside him, and he just wanted it to end.

_Not yet._

He squirmed weakly.  It was all he could do, shaking, halting movements.  “What is it?” she asked.  Her other hand came to his cheek, steadying him, and all he could think was that she shouldn’t be touching him.  She should get away from him.  That, like everything else, was fleeting, and the comfort of having her close, of having her hands on his throbbing, tingling skin, overrode his concern.  But it couldn’t overcome his need to tell her what he had to tell her.  This was going to be his only chance.  He knew that.  “What?”

Tears bled from his eyes in frustration.  Her own eyes welled at seeing that, and she reached behind her.  He couldn’t see what she was doing, but she was back in a moment, and she had a StarkPad with her.  Her fingers worked quickly to turn it on, and she held it in front of him.  “Write it.  Can you do that?”

It took a great deal of effort, but he could.  His forefinger shook miserably as he worked, his head pulsating in time with every strained beat of his heart, with every shrill beep of whatever machines were around him.  He almost slipped away, his strength failing him, but he didn’t.  This was the last thing he needed to do, so he had to keep going.  Those final steps.  His finger glided over the touchscreen, the two letters blurring as his vision grayed.  “OK?” he wrote.

She pulled the pad back a little and looked at the word.  He’d asked her that before, he thought.  Maybe.  He couldn’t remember.  And he couldn’t remember if she’d answered.  She looked at him, lips quivering and tears streaming down her face.  “We’re okay,” she said.  “We’re going to be okay.”  He sagged in exhausted relief, feebly reaching his left hand out for her again.  For her and for their babies.  She understood, took it, and guided it to her stomach.  She held it there.  Her thumb swept over his knuckles, over a glint of silver he saw there.  His wedding ring.  It was back on his finger where it belonged.  And hers were on her hand, right beside his.  She sobbed.  “I…  I was going to ask you something.  I was going to ask you, but I don’t need to.  I never needed to.”  Below his palm, he felt _them_.  A flutter of movement.  Their babies, ready to come into this world.  “I already know the answer!”

He wanted to tell her it was alright, not to cry, but he couldn’t.  And he didn’t need to.  Her heart was breaking, but she was stronger than that.  She leaned over to kiss his forehead, cradling his face.  She was all he could see, all he could hear.  All he could feel.  He lost himself in her.  “I promise you,” she whispered, holding his gaze firmly.  “I promise you I’ll take care of them.  I promise you, Steve.  No matter what happens, I’ll…  I’ll be what you told me I can be.  I know I can do it now.  I know it.”  Her lips pressed to his forehead again.  He squeezed her hand with all the strength he had left, so happy to see her like this.  If he died now…  At least he had this.  So much beauty and passion and strength.  He knew she would do it.  Be a mother.  Be a _wonderful_ mother.  He always had.

She blinked away her tears.  “But we’re not giving up.”  He wasn’t sure he cared anymore.  He felt… weightless.  Complete.  “Bruce has a plan.  He has something that could work that he made from his blood.  And we’re going to try it.  So you have to keep fighting.  Understand?  You have to keep fighting, Steve.  Please don’t give up.  I’m not.  I won’t.”  Somehow she smiled, her face glistening with tears, her eyes twinkling with hope.  “We’re having babies.  Two of them.  And I want you there with me.  I want you to see them, hold them.  I want them to see you.”  God, he wanted that, too.  He didn’t think it was meant to be now.  Not anymore.  “Keep fighting.  Please.”

He did.  Weakly he pulled his hand free to grasp the pad that had been crushed between them.  She realized what she wanted and helped him, steadying it so he could write something else.  It was so hard, and he was so tired, but he managed.  This last step.  The last thing he had to tell her.

When she read it, she smiled.  “I love you, too.”  She was radiant, angelic.  More than he ever dreamed.  More than he ever deserved.  Somehow he’d been blessed with her, with their children, with this life he’d inexplicably led.  She lowered her forehead to his.  “I’m holding on.”  He closed his eyes as she tenderly caressed his hair and whispered her promises.  “I’m not letting you go.  I’m holding on.  Hold onto me.”

He couldn’t anymore.  He was tired, pained, spent.  More than that, though, he was peaceful.  Content.  Calm and steadfast.  So he let her go.  She disappeared.  The light faded.  The world of white was swallowed by gray, by the storm that had been coming and coming.  It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared.  Not now.  It was alright now.  He wasn’t afraid.  Everything sank deep into darkness, and he let himself slip away.


	14. Chapter 14

“How heavy is your bow?”

“Huh?”

Cooper wasn’t deterred, sticking close to Clint’s side as he worked on screwing one of the kitchen cabinet doors back into place.  It wasn’t terribly comfortable (or easy) with his side and belly hurting as much as they were, but he was sick and tired of laying around.  After a nice lunch, he’d figured he might as well make himself useful.  Laura had refused at first, insisting he lay on their couch and take it easy.  That had lasted all of an hour or two before he couldn’t stand it, bored out of his mind and restless despite how sore he was.  It didn’t help that once he’d joined the family for lunch, it seemed he’d literally _joined_ the family.  Cooper was with him constantly, eager to get him anything he wanted, taking on a very self-appointed role of Clint’s personal assistant.  Lila still hadn’t come any closer, but she seemed okay with him being there, in their living room and kitchen, eating at their dinette table.  Laura, of course, had no issue with his presence, smiling faintly at her son’s poorly veiled attempts to extract every scrap of information he could on all things Avengers.  Even the dog (a mutt named Lucky, of all things) seemed happy to have him there, balling up on the couch by Clint’s feet, and when Laura shooed him down, laying his long, brown body down right against the bottom of the sofa between it and the coffee table.  Clint wasn’t at all used to… _this_.  Domestic normalcy, he supposed.  Kids talking and laughing and playing.  Toys spread around.  The TV quietly running through its local daytime programming.  He felt like a fish out of water, and he knew that was contributing to his fidgety disquiet.  Eventually Laura had taken pity on him.  She’d come with painkillers and told him that if he felt up to it, some of the kitchen cabinets could use some tightening.

So now he was sitting on the laminate floor, screwdriver in one hand, battery-operated drill next to him, and one _really_ persistent kid practically joined at his hip.  “Your bow.  Is it heavy?”

“No, not at all.”

“How about Captain America’s shield?  Is that heavy?”

“Not that I know of.  I’ve never fought with it.”

“All those arrows you use.  Did Mr. Stark design them?”

“Yeah.”

“Is Iron Man fun to work with?  Is he stronger than Captain America?”

“Um…”

“What about Thor?  Hey, how come the Hulk hasn’t been out with you guys?  And Black Widow?  Is it true she’s married to Captain America?”

“Coop,” Laura admonished gently from where she was washing the dishes.  Cooper turned to look at her, and she shook her head.

Clint could practically see the kid deflate.  That bothered him for reasons he couldn’t discern exactly.  What was the harm in talking to him?  Never mind the constant pestering for the past few hours.  Cooper didn’t mean anything by it.  To him, he was talking to a hero.  Clint knew he should disabuse him of that, but he didn’t want to.  He was…  God, it was cowardly and selfish and wrong, but he _liked_ the look of adulation in this kid’s eyes.  “Yeah, she’s married to Captain America.”

Cooper nodded, wide-eyed.  “How come?  My friends told me Black Widow used to be a bad guy.”

“So?  And you shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

“Well, Captain America’s a good guy.  Good guys fight bad guys.”

“He loves her.  And she loves him.  And she’s a good guy now, too.  She has been for a long time.”  _Even if she hasn’t realized it until recently._

Cooper looked completely confused.  “But I thought…”

“Cooper,” Laura called again.  “Life’s not like stories.  Sometimes bad guys can become good.”  She gave a look to Clint, something that felt a tad too knowing and too personal, and Clint averted his eyes back to the door he was reattaching.  His palm had gone sweaty and his fingers a little limp, but he managed to get the screwdriver going again.  Of course, the unspoken and natural antithesis of her answer was fairly undeniable. _Sometimes good guys can become bad, too._   And it was more complicated than that, even.  There were good guys and bad guys, but a lot of people fell in the middle.  Neither good nor bad or a touch of both.  In his experience, nothing was simple or what it seemed.  And in his experience, it was those people who tended to be the most dangerous.  That left a sour taste in his mouth.

Thankfully, Cooper didn’t get any of that.  He was just a kid in a small town with no understanding of just how gray and complicated the world truly was.  “Who’d win in a fight…”  Now Clint smiled to himself (and groaned.  Just a bit).  “… you or Black Widow?”

“Her.  Definitely her.”

“Told you,” Lila said from over by the table where she was coloring.  “Told you Black Widow was the best.  Girls are better than boys.”  Clint couldn’t help but smile.

“No, they’re not,” Cooper argued.  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Lila picked up a pink crayon and continued onward with the butterfly she was drawing.  “Yes, they are.”

“Stop fighting,” Laura ordered.  She gave Clint a teasing smile.  If Clint let himself see it (Lord, he wanted to but he _knew_ he shouldn’t), she was flirting.  “Everyone knows women are the backbone of humanity.”

Cooper just went on.  “How about a fight between you and Iron Man?  Who’d win that?”

“Me.  Iron Man’s a pansy.”

“How about between you and Captain America?”

That shouldn’t have stung, but it did.  “Cap.  Hands down.”

“What about between Captain America and Iron Man?”

Clint stopped working the screw back into the hinge.  For some reason, that gave him pause.  And it made him uncomfortable.  He tried to tell himself the pain in his gut was just the stab wound, but it wasn’t.  “What’s with all the questions about Captain America?”

Laura set the last dish to the drying rack and reached for a towel.  “Favorite Avenger,” she whispered with something of an apologetic smile, like Clint might be offended by that.  He wasn’t.  Furthermore, it was pretty obvious, he thought in retrospect.  He’d caught sight of Cooper’s room before he’d come down from upstairs.  Sometimes, being on the inside of it all, he forgot that the Avengers were far more than famous.  They were even more than notorious.  They were _merchandised_.  Action figures and t-shirts and bedding sets and an entire world of stuff for kids and adults alike.  He supposed that was a good thing, that people loved them enough to buy junk with their logo and likenesses splayed all over it, but, damn, it was weird to see his face on a little boy’s underwear.  And Cooper’s room had been an explosion of red, white, and blue, both from Cap and from Optimus Prime.  At least they matched (and honestly?  If he had to pick a Transformer that best embodied the spirit of honor, integrity, and righteousness, Optimus Prime would be it).

Cooper looked worried.  He was old enough to appreciate that what he thought and how he felt could impact others.  But Clint just gave him a disarming smile.  “’s okay.  Cap’s my favorite Avenger, too.  He saved my life not too long ago.”

Cooper’s eyes went as wide as saucers.  “Really?”

The details weren’t important (and far too terrifying for a kid), so he skipped them.  “Yep.”

“Wow.  Cool.”  Clint smiled, finishing with the screw he had and reaching back for the next.  Cooper quickly dropped it in his palm.  Clint dreaded him asking if Steve was okay ( _I need to get out of here and back to New York_ ) but thankfully he didn’t.  Either he didn’t know or he didn’t understand if he did.  Laura seemed the protective type; maybe she’d kept what had happened to Cooper’s favorite Avenger quiet.  His next question was spoken quietly.  “Is it hard?  Being an Avenger?”

Clint didn’t know how to answer that.  Truth be told, he’d never known much else other than fighting.  As a gun for hire, he’d done it for money and power.  As a SHIELD agent, he’d done it for redemption (and for what he’d thought was the greater good).  As an Avenger…  He found himself glancing at Laura, seeking some guidance, because with Cooper’s wide, innocent eyes on him, there was no way he couldn’t say something truthful.  He’d been stared down by some of the worst men in the world, some of the most evil and violent, but this was somehow worse.  Measuring up to a child’s expectations.  Laura only gave him a sad smile.  “Honey…”

“No, it’s alright,” Clint said.  He sighed, set the screw into the hole, held it there even though his side hurt tremendously, and starting working it in.  “It’s…  Yeah, it’s hard.  Sometimes.”  Maybe he could leave it at that.  There was so much more prodding at his lips, an inexplicable urge to unburden his heart.  _It’s hard.  I died.  I lost my hearing.  I lost my soul not long ago, either.  That’s the one thing that didn’t come back._

Cooper nodded, glancing up at the side of Clint’s head.  At the hearing aid that he knew was there.  Clint felt his face burn in an uncharacteristic blush.  Like Laura seeing his scars, he felt ashamed of this even though he knew he shouldn’t be.  He felt _wrong_ , alien, as if he didn’t belong.  Damaged.  Cooper turned even quieter, maybe ashamed himself (or maybe realizing just what sort of man had inexplicably stumbled into his life.  Maybe trying to reconcile the image of a hero the media had painted with the truth.  Maybe realizing Hawkeye wasn’t the good guy he’d thought he was.  Maybe…  _Shut up_ ).  “Can you hold this for me?” Clint asked.  He didn’t really need another set of hands, but the effect it garnered was worth it.  Cooper instantly nodded and scooted closer across the laminate floor, reaching for the cabinet door and lifting it into position.  Clint smiled at him, and he smiled right back.

The telephone rang.  Laura set the hand towel down on the kitchen counter and walked across to the dinette where the phone was fastened to the wall.  It was cordless, but one that was outdated.  She answered it.  Clint tried to listen to the conversation as best he could, concerned it was about him.  It didn’t seem to be.  He heard her say “mom” once or twice.

“Are you going to stay awhile?”

That was Lila asking.  She’d hopped down off her chair at the table, and now she was almost right in front of him.  He’d been so busy eavesdropping on Laura he hadn’t noticed a five year old approach.  He could have smacked himself.  And he could have flinched with the question.  He looked up at her, with her sweet face and open eyes.  She had something stuck to her shirt.  Stickers from a book, it looked like.  She was staring at him in a way that compelled him to answer, once again, even if he didn’t _have_ an answer.  “I don’t know.”

“Are you staying today?  For dinner?” she asked.

Clint sighed.  He shouldn’t.  “Maybe.”

Lila seemed relieved.  “Will you watch _My Little Ponies_ with me?”

He hadn’t known what he’d expected her to say, but that wasn’t it.  Dumbfounded, he asked, “What?”

Cooper’s face darkened.  “She loves _My Little Ponies._ And Dad used to watch it with her sometimes when he was home.  Well, he pretended to watch it.”

“Did not,” Lila retorted sharply.  “He loved it.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Did too!”

“Did not!”

He could see this escalating into an argument (that was probably less about _My Little Ponies_ and more indirectly about their father), so he stepped in.  “What happened with your dad?”  He felt pretty bad for asking _kids_ that, to explain something as emotionally difficult as a divorce to him, but he was really curious (he’d been thinking about it a lot since he woke up, today even more so now that he was down with the family).  There was no way he could ask Laura for a bunch of reasons, not the least of which being it was none of his business.

Cooper’s expression tightened even more into a scowl.  Clint felt even shittier for going there.  On some level, he even felt like he was manipulating this kid, this kid who pretty much _idolized him_ , into saying something he didn’t want to say.  Still, before he could stop him, Cooper was explaining.  “He left.  Right before Christmas.  He just… didn’t come back one day after work.  Mom wanted to be angry about it, but I think she was more relieved than anything.”

“He did that a lot?” Clint asked as he finished up with the door.  God, this sounded painfully familiar.  “Didn’t come home?”

Lila gave a small, scared nod.  Cooper explained more.  “Mom and he used to fight a lot.  Well, he yelled.  Mom kinda just stood her ground.  She never yelled back.”  _Miserably_ familiar.  “She cried sometimes.  I don’t know what he did.”

Clint did.  _Drank.  Cheated._ Laura didn’t have that haunted look about her that his own mother had always had, the aching hollowness of a soul scraped away by violence, so he didn’t think it had ever gone that far.  The mere thought made him angry in a dark, vicious way, a way he hadn’t experienced in quite a while.  Even all of the wrongs done to Natasha (and done to himself) hadn’t stoked to life this kind of cold rage.  Still, just because Laura’s husband, whatever the hell his name was, hadn’t hurt her like that didn’t mean he hadn’t hurt her at all.  Clint’s own father had been as much of a deadbeat as he’d been a raging, vicious drunk.  When you were faced with that degree of awfulness, with the pain of physical abuse, you tended to forget the emotional pain from dealing with someone who was lazy and cruel and uncaring.  It was still damaging.  Scarring in different ways.  Heart-breaking.

Cooper sighed, his own anger cooling.  “Mom said he’s never coming back.”  The way he said that, sort of deadened without the emotional attachment one would expect from a child regarding a lost parent, was just about as telling about the whole situation as Laura’s reticence to talk about it.  Their father hadn’t been much of a part in their lives, and their unhappiness over the situation had far more to do with their mother’s suffering than their own.  “He was really mean to her.”

Clint couldn’t fathom how this could be any closer to home.  He didn’t believe in things like God or fate, but he was pretty damn sure someone somewhere was trying to tell him something.  And he couldn’t stand the way Cooper looked, troubled like he couldn’t understand how _anyone_ , let alone his father, could be that cruel to his mother.  Nine years old, and he was the man of the house.  At least these two kids still had Laura.  When their parents had died, he’d always realized what a burden he’d been on Barney, what a responsibility.  Barney had been older, fourteen, but fourteen was still a kid.  He’d been a _kid_ saddled with another kid to take care of.   Somehow this brought it all into sharper focus, seeing Cooper who wasn’t much younger than he’d been when he’d lost his parents struggle to understand what it meant.  “Hey,” he found himself saying.  “You know, I just met your mom and I already know she’s strong.”

“Stronger than Black Widow?” Lila asked, tentatively coming closer.

“Might be,” Clint said.  “And you know what?”  He gestured them closer, and they came.  He lowered his voice like this was the world’s biggest secret.  “Black Widow’s stronger than Captain America.”

Lila looked so triumphant.  “She is?” she whispered.

“Sometimes.”  He glanced at Cooper, giving something of a knowing smile.  Cooper smiled back.  And even though he knew he shouldn’t, that he needed to go no matter how much he didn’t want to, he grinned at Lila.  “And I’ll watch _My Little Ponies_ with you.  Okay?”

Now Lila beamed.  That grin – the first she’d given him since he’d awoken in this place – was priceless.  It brought something to life inside him, something new and tentative.  Something he’d never felt before.  It felt… precious.  Like something that needed to be protected, as novel and alien as it was.  And Cooper grinned, too, both because his sister was happy and because Clint nudged him a little.  “Let’s get these last few screws back in, huh?”

Cooper was all too eager to help him, and together they made short work of tightening the door in its place.  Lucky suddenly came over, jabbing his cold nose into Clint’s neck.  “Lucky!” Lila cried with a giggle, her voice breaking into a laughing shriek as she was whapped in the face with the dog’s furry tail.

Laura came after him, finished with the phone.  “Back, Lucky.  Come on.”  Clint winced, trying to turn away as the dog covered him in slobber.  Laura grabbed him by the collar and pulled.  “Sorry,” she said a bit breathlessly.  “My mom likes to talk.  And talk.  And _talk_.”

“Yeah?” he asked, holding his side against the pain radiating from it.  “I hope… hope you didn’t tell her you have a half-dead Avenger hiding in your house.”  He meant that as a joke, but his voice came out thick with hurt.

“Somehow that didn’t come up.  Guys, back up a little.  This was too much too fast.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted even though every muscle from his neck down to his pelvis was throbbing in agony from wrenching away, like this was penance for holding the uncomfortable position he’d held for too long.

Laura looked at him sadly, her lips tight in another frown that felt more motherly than anything else.  “Sure, you are.  Come on.  Lila, Coop, up and back.”  Lila and Cooper obeyed, neither overly adept at hiding concern over their newfound friend (seeing that, _realizing_ that, made the pain almost worth it).  Laura crouched beside him, getting an arm around his back.  He felt disgusting again, bathed in his own perspiration as she helped him stand.  He grunted, unable to do it silently though he tried hard for the sake of the kids.  His legs felt weak, and the room spun.  “Easy,” Laura soothed.  “Easy.”

“I’m alright,” Clint managed.  He groaned despite his assurance, and Cooper came right back, taking the screwdriver before he dropped it.  He pressed himself to Clint’s side again, supporting him just as he had before.  Clint smiled around a tight breath.  “Thanks, buddy.”

Together they shuffled across the kitchen, past the dinette, and to the living room.  The bright afternoon daylight streamed in through the large windows, making the place seem airy and larger than it was.  Like everything else in the house, it was modestly decorated with things that weren’t quite in style.  Furnishings that was simple, effective, and homey.  He collapsed less than gracefully on the couch.  Laura grabbed the throw, looking down on him in a mixture of worry and affection, before draping it over his lap.  “Let me get you some more painkillers.”  Her hand lingered on his arm.  Then she pulled away and went back to the kitchen.

Lila watched him carefully, a little scared and very doubtful.  Clint got control of his breathing, weakly tipping his chin to her.  “You promised me ponies.”

She smiled and boldly crawled up onto the couch beside him.  She wasn’t too hesitant about snuggling up, either.  Cooper found the remote and took the spot on Clint’s other side, not quite so close but more because it wasn’t the “manly” thing to do than because he was reticent.  One moment on a kitchen floor, and he was in with the kids, and in in a _big_ way.

God, that felt good.

As Cooper flipped through the channels to whatever one had _My Little Ponies_ , Laura returned with a glass of Gatorade and a few more Advil.  Clint smiled gratefully, tiredly taking the pills.  “You guys okay?” she asked.  Clint stiffened a little, momentarily afraid that she was concerned about him – still a stranger for all intents and purposes – being so close to her kids.  Maybe they’d suddenly and inexplicably accepted him, but they were kids coming off a difficult divorce; their opinions weren’t the end all, be all in this situation.  But it wasn’t that.  That was his overactive conscience.  She was simply concerned about them hurting him or encroaching on his space.  “Lila, honey, move over a little.”

“It’s alright,” he immediately assured.  He got his breathing better in control, and the pain was receding again to something more tolerable.  There was no way the analgesics could work that fast, so it was some sort of placebo effect.  Whatever.  It was nice.  “So tell me about these ponies.”

She did.  All of her reservations about him seemed to have completely dissipated, because she jabbered endlessly about them.  It was actually difficult to pay attention to the show she was babbling so much, explaining which of the ponies she liked and which ones she didn’t.  Her favorite pony was someone (something?) called Twilight Sparkle.  Even Cooper chimed in, adding his opinions in a dismissive way that suggested that his dislike of the show was more on principle than actual dislike.  Clint didn’t get it; everything was pink and purple and twinkles and rainbows, and every pony’s voice was so high-pitched and annoying.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d watched a cartoon.  He might have been Cooper’s age, in fact, so this was weird.  Still, he enjoyed their enjoyment of it.  After _My Little Ponies_ was over, some _Transformers_ show came on.  They watched that, too, and now it was Cooper’s turn to explain everything enthusiastically.  Lila kept inching closer again, even though Laura was right there on the loveseat.  Pretty soon she was somewhat snuggled into Clint’s side.  Laura caught his eyes, silently asking him if it was okay, and he just smiled faintly and nodded, though it did feel… weird.   He wasn’t sure what to do with his arm.  Holding it up was too painful and too much work, but was it alright to touch her?  After a few minutes of feeling awkward and uncertain, he gave up and laid his arm on her back.  She didn’t flinch, didn’t move away.  That was shocking in a warm way, and he let himself relax.

Laura was right but not for the reasons she thought.  This was all too much too fast.  He closed his weary eyes as the kids got more engrossed in afternoon cartoons, closed his eyes and let his mind wander unfettered for the first time in a long time.  Right here, right now, it was all too easy to imagine a different life.  He’d never much been able to before.  Hell, he’d never much _wanted_ to before.  A simpler, quieter existence, far away from the dark things he’d done and the difficult experiences he’d had.  The simplicity of it all was overwhelming (that made no sense, but it was true).  He drifted in his thoughts, lulled by the oddly _right_ feeling of Lila against him and Cooper on his other side, imagining what it would be like to _have_ this, to belong right where he was.  He drifted until he dozed off.

“Falling asleep on the job?”

Clint jerked awake.  “Fuck,” he groaned when he nearly rammed his knee into the steering column of the van.

Beside him, Jacques finished sliding into the passenger’s seat and closed the door.  “What’s the matter with you, huh?  Sloppy, kid.  Really sloppy.”  The cold venom in his voice was always so cutting.  Clint struggled to get himself more awake, letting the adrenaline rush over him to jolt his senses.  The radio in the van was softly playing.  It was pitch dark out, the dead of winter, and they were parked in the empty lot of a grocery store.  Snow was piled high around them, mountains of white that looked orange in the light from the lampposts.  Their car was hidden in the mounds.  Across the road, the First Federal Credit Union of Des Moines was quiet.  Easy picking.  Should be, anyway.  “You’re hungover.  Get your fucking head back in the game.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face.

Jacques was furious.  He was always terrifying when he was.  He didn’t tolerate weakness, not of any sort.  Clint was rapidly realizing that, as they accumulated more and more wealth owing to their efforts to rob every bank along the Mississippi from New Orleans to Minneapolis.  Jacques didn’t spend what they stole.  Didn’t buy anything extravagant.  Didn’t drink.  Didn’t seem to enjoy much beyond the job itself.  It wasn’t that he didn’t take pleasures, because he did.  Women and alcohol and drugs.  He just did it all with the same cold restraint with which he worked.  In a way, Clint found that terrifying, that he’d never seen the man completely let go.  And he never seemed satisfied, like no matter how much they stole, how many people they (Jacques) killed, how powerful they became, it would _never_ be enough.

Jacques clenched his jaw.  He looked angry and displeased.  “Feel like I can smell the Feds,” he grumbled.  His breath was a jet of vapor against the frosted glass of the van windows.  He had his hand tight around the hilt of his sword.

Clint watched him a moment more and looked around the deserted parking lot and street.  If the Feds were here, they weren’t obvious about it.  Jacques had silenced Buck before he could really tell the FBI anything, but still…  “Wanna call this one off?”

He could see Jacques was frustrated.  He scowled morosely into the night a moment more.  “No.  Everything’s clear.  If they show up, we’ll drop them.”  Clint swallowed down something inside – _fear_ – and tried to breathe over his pounding heart.  This had been inevitable, the more and more proficient they became at stealing.  They’d been playing cat and mouse with the FBI for weeks now, after a heist in St. Paul had nearly gone wrong.  And when Buck had started to flip on them, this had turned personal.  The more dangerous it became, the more adamant Jacques became about doing it.  He was almost like a feral animal marking his territory, challenging others to encroach and face his wrath.  It was simultaneously incredible and downright disturbing.  This was wrong and dangerous, somehow more and more so even though Clint had practically thrown himself into a life of crime.  This was…  He couldn’t explain it.  Something was wrong.  This wasn’t going to end well.  He didn’t know why he knew that, but he did.  It was a heavy thing, dragging him down, making him want to stay.  He let his eyes slip shut against the tightening in his chest.  He felt sick, and not just because he’d had too much earlier when he’d been drinking instead of training.  He felt…

“Let’s go.”

 Clint opened his eyes, and he was back on the couch.  Laying on it, in fact, with the cushions pillowed under his head and the throw covering him more completely.  It took him a moment to wake up, listening to the gentle hum of conversation back in the kitchen.  Something about school on Monday, about homework, about needing to get groceries.  The lethargy was pleasant, and he rode it out like a boat rising and falling on gentle waves in the ocean.  The television was still on.  He turned his head a little so that he could hear better.  “In other news, the President has once again appealed for the public and paparazzi alike to give the Avengers some privacy.  He spoke to the press this morning from the lawn of the White House.”

The video changed from a pretty woman in a newsroom to President Ellis at a podium.  “I urge everyone to take a step back.  Put yourself in their shoes.  It may be a tough thing to ask, but try for their sake.  This is not the time to be asking these kinds of questions, scrutinizing and prying into their lives.  I have spoken with Ms. Romanoff at length.  She is in an unbelievably difficult situation right now, and one of the best ways we as a nation can help is to keep calm and allow them some peace.  I can assure everyone that she will keep me informed as to Captain Rogers’ health.  In the meantime, we all need to respect their privacy.”

Clint blinked blearily, his malaise fading more as the reporter returned to the screen.  “Interest in the situation continues to build since Ms. Romanoff addressed the press yesterday afternoon in front of Avengers Tower in New York.”

 _What the hell?  She did what?_ Again the coverage switched, this time to Natasha, of all people, standing in front of a swarm of reporters on the street in front of the lobby to the Tower.  Maria Hill and Tony’s head of security were with her.  She looked beautiful but so worn and fragile.  And it was obvious to _everyone_ how pregnant she was.  Her wedding bands were plain on her finger.  It was shocking that she was _there,_ out in the open with cameras flashing after months of lurking in the safety of the Tower.  What she said was even more shocking.  “I’m standing here, eight months pregnant, and the father of my children and the… the man I love is hurt and needs help.  All of you who have ever stayed behind while your wives or husbands have left to risk their lives to protect people know what that’s like.  How much it hurts you.  How much it drives you mad with helplessness.  How much it kills you inside.  I wasn’t prepared for it, but I understand now what it means to sacrifice.  And I understand how important it is that that sacrifices be made, for our sakes and for the sake of everyone on this planet so that we all can live free.”

 _Holy shit._   That sounded exactly like something Steve would say.

“The Avengers have not released any formal statement concerning Captain America’s collapse days ago during the attack at the GSIS4 in Geneva,” said the anchorwoman as the video returned to her, “nor has any information about who attacked the summit or why been made public.  People are desperate for answers, and the President’s repeated calls for patience and understanding have some questioning recent view points on the Avengers and the need for regulation.”

“Don’t get me wrong; I have nothing but respect for the Avengers and what they do for the world.”  This was an interview with some senator.  Clint was too lost in his surprise to read the name.  “But I think the issues that were about to be discussed at the summit still stand.  Do we need some transparency?  And I say this not just to help us, but to help _them._   Maybe they deserve more than having to face what they face alone.  More support.  More understanding.”

He didn’t care about that.  All he heard was something about facing things _alone._   And then it all came crashing back, stuff he’d selfishly allowed himself to forget.  Steve wasn’t dead, at least not yet.  He had no idea what was happening with the team, with Sam (was Sam even okay?  Had Sam found Barnes?), with Natasha.  He’d been so caught up in his own memories and troubles and wants that he’d let himself _fail_ his mission.  And even if he had failed, even if there was nothing he could do now, he needed to go back.  Natasha needed him.  _Natasha needed him._

He was moving before he thought better of it and practically fell off the couch and onto Lucky.  The dog squeaked, and Clint gasped, trying to twist to avoid crushing him.  That got Laura running over instantly.  “Hey, hey,” she said around a worried breath.  “What happened?”

Clint shuddered, struggling to get a deep breath into his aching chest.  He planted his hands on the hardwood floor and pushed himself up as best he could, but he was too damn hurt and weak to do it alone.  _Come on,_ snarled his thoughts.  He’d fought in worse shape before, fought through worse pain and stiffness, fought more debilitated.  Here and now he’d allowed himself to get soft and vulnerable.  Still, as angry as he was with himself, he couldn’t let that anger touch her.  None of this was her fault, and she didn’t know.  She didn’t know what was happening, what she’d saved him from, who and what he was.  She didn’t know anything.  And he needed to keep it that way.  “I – I have to go.”

Her face fractured in something he knew was hurt, but she hid it quickly.  The kids were right there, watching her, trying to gauge their reactions off of hers.  “You’re not ready to go anywhere, Clint.”

That wasn’t good enough.  “I have to be,” he said stubbornly, trying again to get himself standing and this time succeeding.  The cost was pretty high, though, because he was panting and shaking with the pain.  “I have to get back.  I have to.”

Laura stared at him, flabbergasted.  She glanced at the TV, where the anchorwoman was finishing up with the story on the Avengers, and she was smart so she pieced together the problem instantly.  “You don’t need to go.  Call them from here.”  She must have thought her voice was desperate because she took a deeper breath, came closer, and grasped his arm to steady him.  “It’s alright.”

He struggled to get a hold of his emotions.  It was usually so much easier.  He couldn’t discern exactly what Lila said; she and Cooper were on the side where his hearing aid had been lost.  But he could hear the tone of her voice, the concern both for him and that he was leaving them already.  He drew a deep breath to center himself.  “It’s not,” he insisted softly.  “I can’t stay here.  Even if I didn’t need to get back to New York, it’s not safe for you.”

Laura sighed, like she was a little irritated they were going over this again.  “It’s not a problem–”

“No,” Clint said firmly, “it _is_ a problem.  I know you want to help me, and you have.  I swear I’ll spend the rest of my days wondering why you’ve been so good to me when I…”  He couldn’t finish.  “You had no cause to take me in, and even less reason to keep the cops out of this, and I’m undyingly grateful for that.  But you have to understand.”  He lowered his voice and pulled Laura closer.  For the first time, she tensed in his grip.  That small reaction drove regret right into his heart, but he had to make her _see_ that he wasn’t worth this.  “HYDRA is everywhere.  _Everywhere._   In the government.  Local and state and federal.  SHIELD had eyes and ears all over, and SHIELD was HYDRA.  I know that better than anyone, and I won’t put your family at risk by calling from here.  I can’t put you at risk by staying here.  Understand?  The safest thing is for me to go and for you and your kids to never talk about this again.”

“Clint–”

“Laura,” he said lowly.  She stared at him defiantly, those dark brown eyes filled with so much ridiculous trust that he simultaneously wanted to shake some sense into her and…  _Kiss her._   She was close enough, tilted into him in just such a way that he could do it without moving at all.  And he wanted to.  He’d never quite wanted to like this before.  Not even with Natasha.  But he stopped himself, made himself tear his gaze away from her lips and eyes.  “You can’t let me stay.”

It was clear how much she wanted to.  But she was shaken.  He could see that he’d hurt her, unsettled her, and he felt like a complete bastard for doing it, but it was better this way.  “You can’t walk to town.  Not like this.  It’s too far, and you’re…”  She shook her head.  “What are you going to do?”  She was right.  His options were pretty few.  He couldn’t make it outside by himself.  He had essentially no weapons.  Injured and alone, he’d be out in the open, easy pickings for anyone trying to take him out.  And turning himself over wasn’t any better an option.  If HYDRA was here or searching around here for him, _any_ move he made was dangerous.  Calling New York from their house was out of the question.  “At least let me drive you to town,” she pleaded.  “At least let me do that.”

Then he thought of something.  “Is there a payphone in town?”  Everything else around here seemed a little outdated and remote, so he supposed there was a chance.

Laura’s brow furrowed in confusion before she understood.  “No.  But there’s one in Levi.  It’s about forty-five minutes west down route 5.”

_Perfect.  That’ll work._

* * *

An hour later, Laura pulled her sedan into Levi, Nebraska, which was no bigger than Clarkston and about as sparsely populated.  Route 5 had been something of a straight shot through endless farm land, all cold, desolate, and mottled gray and brown with winter.  It had been a relief to see the little buildings of the town ahead, a break in the tense monotony of being nowhere with no escape.

What wasn’t a relief was the fact that Lila and Cooper were in the backseat of the car with them.  Of course they would be; it wasn’t as if Laura could simply leave them, particularly not if HYDRA was perhaps hunting down Clint.  She kept glancing at them in the rearview mirror.  The kids were smart, and they knew something was up even if they didn’t understand the particulars.  They’d been extremely quiet the entire ride, tense and frightened.  Clint struggled not to let that bother him or to show that he was in intense pain from sitting upright.  Every jostle of the car over a pothole or dip in the road was sheer agony.  He was also at war with himself, trying not to think or feel anything, because thinking and feeling would inevitably lead to the fact that he _didn’t want to go._   He knew he needed to.  God, he did.  Natasha needed him.  But for the first time in a long time, he felt extraordinarily torn about what he should do.  Even when he’d been forced to aid the STRIKE Team, he hadn’t felt this reluctant to do what was necessary.  That was all sorts of fucked up, but things had been clearer then, somehow less scraped raw, less damaged.  He’d known the right course, the necessary course.  Now…

He’d never wanted so badly in his life to quit.

It was dusk, a lavender sky newly thick with clouds dousing the town in shadows.  The air smelled cold and damp, that state in between rain and snow.  It might have been his imagination, but things felt tense.  Coiled tightly and ready to strike.  Clint’s heart was heavily thudding against his sternum as he looked around the town’s main drag.  There wasn’t much; a grocery store, a couple of little diners and restaurants, a really old movie theater, and a few other shops lined the street. Just as Laura said, there was an old payphone by the post office at the end of the road.  It looked like it was barely operational (and operated by some no-name company to boot).  Still, Clint felt relief wash over him.  “Just park over there.”

Laura pulled the car into the parking lot of the grocery store.  It was mostly empty because it was Sunday evening and everything was closed, so that was something of a relief.  She put the vehicle into park and made to turn off the engine.  “Keep it running,” Clint advised.

“There’s no one here,” she replied.

“Doesn’t matter.”  He scanned their surroundings carefully, but she was right.  There was no one around.  He forced himself to be calm, but he couldn’t ease his rattled nerves.  He’d been in worse ( _far_ worse) situations than this plenty of times before.  Having so much more at stake this time, physically present and innocent beside him and behind him, made this unbearable.  “Why don’t you just go?”

She looked aghast.  “Not until I know for sure you have someone coming to get you.”

He didn’t know if that would be possible with the apparent chaos back at the Tower.  His reply came out harsher than he intended.  “I can take care of myself.”

She wasn’t amused or assured of anything.  “Right.”

A couple of fat snowflakes hit the windshield of the car and instantly began to melt.  He watched them, frustrated and grim.  “Alright,” he conceded, “but all of you stay in the car.”  It was probably crazy to them to think that this was dangerous or necessary, but he knew better than anyone the hazards of trusting your surroundings.  As far as he was concerned, _anywhere_ but that farmhouse could be enemy territory.  The last thing he wanted was for HYDRA to link Laura to him.  Even getting a glimpse of him getting out of this car was a risk.  That was probably paranoid, but he wasn’t going to take any chances.

Gathering his composure and steeling himself against the pain, he grabbed the door handle and pushed it open.  “Wait,” she said.  She reached into her purse and pulled out a handful of change.  “You’re probably going to need this.  Unless you want to risk calling collect.”  She smiled faintly.  “Do they even still have that?”

He looked at the coins in her outstretched palm and then at her face before returning her smile.  “No idea.  Thanks.”  Taking the money, he glanced back at Lila and Cooper, who were both quiet and worried.  He didn’t want to frighten them, so he didn’t remind them of the obvious things, like listening to their mother and putting their heads down if something happened.  He definitely didn’t remind Laura to run like hell if they were attacked because they wouldn’t be.  He was just being cynical and pessimistic like always.  He made himself believe that because if he didn’t, he’d never get himself going.  So he gave a tight smile and a nod before somehow climbing to his feet and shutting the car door behind him.

Already he felt miserable and alone.  Cold, wet snow was falling in earnest.  He shrugged deeper into the coat he’d borrowed from Laura’s ex, stuffing his hands into the pockets but not releasing the change.  Despite how sore and weak he was, he managed to walk away from the car briskly.  Falling into that calm, quiet place inside him always made it easier to ignore pain.  He kept his head tilted slightly toward the car, sacrificing the fact that that might seem odd and conspicuous in order to hear better.  He crossed the street and in a matter of seconds he was at the payphone.

It faced away from the car thankfully, so he’d be able to keep an eye on it.  God, it had been _years_ since he’d last seen one of these, let alone used one.  He picked up the handset, fearing there wouldn’t even be a dial tone, but there was.  _My lucky day,_ he thought darkly as he pushed a quarter into the box.  Then he started punching in Maria Hill’s private number.

He never got the chance to finish dialing.  Slowly he lowered the phone from his ear, watching as two men wearing dark clothes approached from a diner not far from the grocery store.  They weren’t making much effort to hide the fact that they didn’t belong here.  And they had _that_ look to them.  Clint knew it too well.  He’d seen it countless times before, on criminals and thugs, on the members of the STRIKE Team in particular.  A swagger that heralded ruthless violence.  Uncaring confidence, as if to proclaim to the world that power was an absolute and it would be wielded with an iron fist and sadistic fervor.  It didn’t matter for whom the bad guys worked; they _all_ walked like that.  Even he’d donned that air once or twice (or more if he cared to be honest).  Duquesne had taught him well.

SHIELD had taught him better.

The minute they adjusted their path to head toward Laura’s car, that need to _protect them_ went hot inside him.  He set the phone back into the cradle, the call he needed to make all but forgotten, and limped closer.  At the edge of the street he paused.  They hadn’t spotted him yet, so as much as it pained him, he made himself wait a few seconds for them to reach the sedan and focus on that.  The first guy rapped on the window.  Maybe it would be better to do nothing.  As much as he thought these guys were HYDRA, he really had no proof.  If they weren’t, it would probably be better not to become involved.  If they weren’t HYDRA–

The one guy shook his coat to get the wet snow off, and the bulge of a gun in his waistband was undeniable.  They were HYDRA.

All that remained of Clint’s restraint snapped.  Even as injured as he was, they never saw him coming, which was exactly how he preferred it.  He was across the street like a shadow, and the first guy went down hard when he attacked.  Clint grabbed his arm, snapped it behind his back, and shoved him into the back of the car violently enough that the entire thing shifted.  Lila screamed, her cry muffled inside, but the sound of it was sufficient to drive Clint even deeper into this primal need to keep them safe.  He swept the legs out from under the man, punching him down while he fell.  The first one who’d been yanking at Laura’s car door whirled, reaching behind his coat for his own gun, but Clint tackled him.  They smacked into the cold, wet pavement of the parking lot, and the gun went flying.

It was pretty damn obvious that he’d bitten off more than he could chew with this fight.  Normally that would never be the case, but like this?  He was burning with pain as they fell and barely able to function.  The HYDRA thug, as stunned as he was by the attack, was quick to roll and pin him, and Clint was in too much agony to stop it.  A knee jabbed into his midriff, and he couldn’t stop a distressed cry from bursting from his lips.  Hands choked him.  “Hawkeye,” sneered the thug looming over him.  “So you’re here after all!”  He raised a fist to punch him.

“Don’t!  Don’t, or I’ll shoot!”  Laura’s voice was shaking almost as badly as her hands where they clenched the gun.  The man on top of him turned, sneering and irritated, doubting very much this civilian would have the guts to pull the trigger despite the gun practically shoved into his face.  Clint doubted it, too, and was completely horrified at the thought.  The moment’s distraction was all he needed, though.  He balled his right hand into a fist and rammed in squarely into the bastard’s temple.  He fell to the side, and Clint clambered out from under him with surprising speed and agility.  A well-placed kick into the thug’s midriff left him gasping for air and crumpling against the car.

Clint struggled through the pain in his chest and stomach, struggled to get a deep breath, before grabbing the man’s jacket and hauling him back up.  “Where’s Swordsman?”

The man smiled with a mouth full of bloody teeth.  “Coming for you,” he replied matter-of-factly.  “Hail HYDRA.”

“Son of a bitch,” Clint hissed, knocking him out with another punch.  He hunched over the unconscious body, fighting to catch his wind and get control over his body.  He couldn’t stop shivering.  Laura gasped something that sounded like a whimper, the gun still trembling wildly in front of her.  She couldn’t look away from the men sprawled in the parking lot beside her car, men that had come to hunt them, hurt them, or kill them.  Sudden realization of everything Clint had been trying to tell her had left her lost.  She was as white as the snow falling, eyes wide with shock.  “Here.  Laura, here.”  He held out his hand.  “Give it to me.”

Limply her fingers released the gun.  Clint took it, snapping into motion on sheer instinct and training because his brain was too stricken to manage much more than a throbbing, panicked need to _get out of there_.  He checked the magazine to see it was fully loaded before snapping it back into place.  Then he scrambled over to the other guy, searching him and finding another gun and a switchblade.  He stuffed the second gun into his jeans under his belt.

The sound of an engine firing up was loud in the stiff silence, and Clint lifted his head in horror.  It was close, close to where the two guys had been.  _Shit._   “Get in the car,” he ordered Laura.  Despite how scared she was, she was quick to comply, pulling open the now dented driver’s door and sliding back inside.  Clint hobbled his way across the front of the sedan, spotting Lila and Cooper watching him with wide-eyed stares from the backseat.  He whirled when he heard the sound of tires, of a truck or something bigger coming closer.  _Shit!_ He wrenched the door open and threw himself inside the car.  “Go, go!”

She floored it.  The shrieking tires were deafening.  Clint saw it was an SUV coming at them, and once the driver realized they were trying to escape, he gunned it as well.  “No, go over the curb!”  Laura reacted quickly, avoiding the exit to the lot where the SUV was rapidly coming, and sent them bouncing over the sidewalk and onto the street.  Clint grabbed the steering wheel and helped her make the sharp turn, looking sharply over his shoulder at their pursuers.  This wasn’t good.  That car was definitely newer and probably faster than their own.  Once they were steady on the street, he ordered, “Floor it!”

They tore through the little town, racing along the main drag with all the speed they could muster.  Thank God the area was quiet, small, and empty, so their way was clear.  Ahead the street turned, and again Clint helped her take the turn as fast as possible.  “Where?” Laura gasped, terrified but doing an admirable job of containing it.  “Where am I–”

“Just get back on route 5!”  It was a straight shot in the middle of nowhere, which was dangerous but better than trying to outrun these bastards in the midst of innocent people.  Frankly, Clint didn’t see much of choice.

“Mommy!” Lila screamed.  Suddenly the rear window of the car exploded inward, and she shrieked even louder.

Rage and horror sent Clint reaching into the backseat despite the bullets peppering the rear of the car.  “Get down!” he cried, snatching Lila’s head and pushing her in between the back of the front seats and the backseat.  “Cooper!”  Cooper followed, crushing his little sister to the floor beneath him.

“Oh, God!” Laura cried.  She was trying to drive faster, screaming down the country road past those desolate fields.  The SUV was gaining on them.  More bullets slammed into their car, punching holes into the windshield.  “Clint!”

Clint had to stop this.  As much as it hurt, as difficult as it was, he pushed his leaden body through the gap between the two front seats, squirming and struggling into the back.  He felt something in his stomach tear, the stitches in all likelihood.  One more burning hurt layered on top of so many.  He ignored it and shoved himself back, damn lucky that none of the bullets hit him.  “Stay down,” he said tightly to the kids.  “Stay down and close your eyes!”

“Mommy!  Mommy!” Lila screamed.  Her little face was red and wet, scrunched up in hysteria.  “Mommy!”

“It’s alright, honey,” Clint said.  Two pairs of terrified eyes met his, and he managed to summon up a calm _smile_ in the midst of this disaster.  He knew right then and there that he’d do anything to protect them.  If that meant shielding them with his own body, he would.  “Eyes closed.  Heads down, alright?  I’m not going to let anything hurt you.”

 _“Clint!”_ The SUV was nearly on them, and Clint barely had a second to get a breath before they were rammed.  Laura cried out, struggling to keep control as the battered car moaned and quaked.  Clint threw himself over the kids, pushing them down more into the floor until the car stopped shaking so wildly.  Bullets slammed into the rear of the seat in which he’d been sitting.  Rage erupted inside him, and he tightened his grip on his gun.  The minute Laura managed to get some distance between them and the SUV again, he was up, aiming, and squeezing the trigger.  The SUV wasn’t reinforced, and his first shot sent spider webs of cracks through the windshield.

The thugs in the car immediately realized he was firing at them, and they shot back.  Clint winced, ducking down behind the protection of the backseat.  Heart pounding wildly, he glanced to the kids crying beneath him and Laura, Laura who was turning to glance behind her at him.  _No!_   He reached up and shoved her to the left, away from where she was exposed.  A bullet clipped his hand instead of her shoulder.  She screamed and he grunted, hardly feeling the pain even as the side of his palm spurted red.  He had to get them out of this.  He had to do it now.

He turned, cradling his injured hand to his chest, and popped up again.  His first shot hit the windshield of the SUV, damaging it further.  His next punched a hole through, but it was nearly impossible to see anything through the cracked glass now.  Not the driver.  Not the men shooting at them from the open passenger windows.  Nothing.  No way to make a shot.

But that was Clint’s specialty, making the impossible shot.  He caught one split second glimpse of a throat through that hole he’d made.  He aimed and pulled the trigger.  The only evidence that his shot struck true was the spray of red and the fact that the SUV immediately twisted to the left.  At the speed they were at, that was catastrophic.  The car rolled.

Laura looked frantically over her shoulder again.  Their pursuers tumbled over, the car pitching and smashing as it flew off the road and landed in the ditch beside it.  Their car slowed as Laura gawked in relief.  “Don’t stop!”  Clint reached around the seat, grabbing for her hand as she reached back.  “Keep going!”

She sped up again, and their sedan raced down the abandoned country road.  A moment later there was only the rattling of the damaged vehicle, the pounding of their hearts, and their short, frightened breaths shuddering from their lips.  Clint kept his eyes behind him at the rapidly shrinking hulk of the crashed SUV, just to make sure it wasn’t coming after them.  It wasn’t.

Cooper finally squirmed beneath him, so he let him up.  And Cooper let Lila up, but he was reticent to let her go.  She sniffled, lower lip quivering, before throwing herself at Clint.  Clint grimaced with the sudden pressure on his wounded chest, the air rushing from his mouth anew at the impact, but he held her tight.  “Are you guys okay?” he asked desperately.  His voice was ragged with pain, emotion, and fading adrenaline.  “Are you?”

Cooper nodded, but then his brave front shattered and he, too, fell into Clint’s embrace.  Clint kept his bleeding hand away, wrapping his other arm around them both.  Cooper balled his hands into Clint’s jacket and silently cried while Lila wept loudly, gasping for Laura into Clint’s shoulder.  Clint shuddered in such a storm of emotion.  They were safe.  He’d kept them safe.  But this was his fault and HYDRA wouldn’t stop and Swordsman was _coming for him_ –

“Clint,” Laura gasped.  She bravely wiped her face and then reached behind to get a hand on her kids.  “What should we–”

“Drive home,” he said.  “Hurry.  Fast as we can.  We’ll get what we need.  Then we’ll hide.”

“Where?”

He didn’t know.  He only knew there was no way in hell he’d let this family pay for his mistakes.

* * *

This was merely another longshot in an endless series of improbable longshots, but somehow Sam was confident it was going to pan out.  His faith was likely born of exhaustion and desperation, but it felt good to have hope no matter how illogical and ill-fated it was.  This had to be it, the place where they would find Bucky.  It had to be because there was nowhere else to go, nowhere else to search.  And there was no time.  Last he’d talked to Hill (which had been a few hours ago) the news had been devastating.  The cryostasis had failed for reasons into which she hadn’t gone.  Steve was now on life support.  _Life support._   They were trying some sort of cure developed from the Hulk, and at the moment it was too soon to tell if it was doing any good though they should know something soon.  Bruce wasn’t confident it would work.  If it didn’t, or if they didn’t find Barnes _now,_ Steve would die.  There’d be no other chances, no other unlikely options, no more longshots or last hopes.  There’d be nothing.  _This was it._

On the phone, Maria had sounded tense, strained, and defeated.  Under the façade she always wore of being so in control, she wasn’t, and Sam hadn’t even been able to speak as she’d implored them to hurry.

Hurrying was ridiculously difficult with this much ground to cover.  He’d never been to the Stark Expo, though he’d seen it on TV once or twice years ago.  It had always been an extravagant affair, but since Tony had taken over the company, it had veritably exploded into a spectacle that was equal parts convention, exposition, and party.  The grounds were huge, covering nearly three hundred acres, by far the biggest thing in Flushing, Queens.  It was dark now with winter, abandoned until late spring when the annual event would occur, but that didn’t diminish the enormity of the space they had to cover.  There was so much land, and it was loaded with buildings and booths and gardens and museums.  Amphitheaters and restaurants and concession stands.  A goddamn Ferris wheel and a monorail.  So many places to hide.  The world’s loudest, clumsiest, most conspicuous person wouldn’t have any problem eluding capture in a place like this, let alone the world’s deadliest assassin.  They were in serious trouble.

Because of that, Fury had rolled the dice and involved Stark Industries security in the search.  It was risky because there was no way they could reasonably hide the swarm of guards that had been roaming the park most of the day.  Now that it was night, they’d also turned on some of the ground’s lights, floodlights and street lamps, to speed the process up.  If Barnes was here, he’d catch wind of the hunt; it was entirely inconceivable that he wouldn’t.  That meant he’d already bolted or he was staying despite knowing they were after him, and that might even suggest he was going to let them catch him.  If it was the latter, he certainly wasn’t making it easy.  If it was the former and he was already gone, or he’d never been here at all and Sam had been wrong about this whole crazy idea…  Well, it didn’t really matter how loud or noticeable they were or how much time this took.  It was already too late.

With Steve’s shield on his back, Sam crept along one of the shadowy streets in the Expo.  Even with the scores of Stark Industries security guards in the park, it was still vacant.  This place had been made to accommodate tens of thousands of eager fans as they gathered to see what technological marvels Stark Industries and its allies and competitors planned to unveil in the not so distant future.  Now it was absolutely eerie and silent, his boots loud on the pavement as he walked despite how he tried to keep his steps light.  The night was thick and cold, the air damp and miserable to breathe.  He jogged quickly as he passed a few black buildings, each with a different company’s name adorning them.  His eyes were as fast as his feet, darting cursory glances everywhere, but there was nothing to see.  The remains of winter clinging stubbornly to the ground in the dead grass and muddy snow.  Long shadows, any of which large and dark enough to hide a man.  Empty, lonely buildings.  The whole damn place seemed haunted, like one of those abandoned amusement parks of which he’d seen documentaries.  It was creepy, the ghosts of people slipping among the shadows, the apparitions of guests teasing his senses, voices and music and clapping in the breeze.  Sam stopped once he reached a larger area, catching his breath and hating every second of this.  His heart was thudding tensely against his ribcage, his breath quick clouds of vapor from dried lips.  His leg hurt from where he’d been hurt (God, that felt like ages ago).  He was completely exhausted; he’d hardly slept since Steve had collapsed, and he’d spent most of the day searching the grounds here, moving so much and with so little in terms of rest that his limbs were rubbery and tingling with pain.  And this unsettling experience wasn’t helping him stay focused.  _Steve’s dying._   As he turned around, trying to figure out where to go next, trying not to collapse, the thought came unbidden.  And it helped.  It helped tremendously.  He let himself think that, focus on it.  _Steve’s dying.  He’s going to die unless you do this.  You have to do this.  Find him, Wilson.  Find Barnes._

His ear piece crackled loudly to life.  Sam winced at the volume. “Wilson, status?”

“Nothing.”

Fury said nothing to that.  His silence was telling enough of how he felt.  _Lost cause._   He didn’t say it, though.  “Let’s regroup.  Try another sweep.”

“With all due respect,” came the voice of one of the head security guys, “this is just wasting our time.  We’ve been combing this place over for hours, and we’ve got nothing.  This guy is probably long gone, if he was here to begin with.”

Sam gritted his teeth against his anger and frustration.  No way in hell was he admitting that.  “We keep going,” he ordered firmly.  Again with the silence.  Even Fury seemed reluctant to hop in and throw his weight onto Sam’s side.  That only succeeded in pissing Sam off more.  If Maria was giving up and the folks at the Tower were giving up and Fury was giving up, well…  He knew what Steve would do if their roles were reversed.  Giving up was sure as shit not it.  “Captain America’s life is on the line here.  We search until we find something!”

He didn’t care how frantic and delusional that sounded.  He was walking again before he thought to, heading deeper into the Expo.  As he did, the guard’s voice eventually came over the comm link again.  “Mr. Stark said to help you, so we’re helping you.”

Fury was relaying orders then, any sign of being exhausted or discouraged gone from his voice.  He was telling everyone to fall back to the Oracle dome, where he’d likely coordinate another series of sweeps through the grounds.  Sam wasn’t going.  His mind was racing, frenzied thoughts swirling in his head as his shoes crunched over the asphalt and grass.  _Come on, Barnes.  Please, for the love of God…  Show me where you are._   He ran up a small hill, stopping at the top to catch his breath.  There was a pretty good vantage of the park from here, and he could see most of it.  Something caught his gaze.  Something silver and surrounded by night.  He’d seen it before, of course (it was sort of the center of the Expo, after all) but something about it now…

_Maybe…_

He ran.  The sudden inspiration after a day full of disappointment seemed too crazy – _so fucking obvious_ – that it couldn’t possibly be right.  This huge sprawl of modern marvel, of extravagant and futuristic splendor, and where would Barnes be?  _He’s retracing his steps._   So Sam retraced his to the very center of the Expo, where the model of the earth, all glistening chrome and silver, shone in the pale lights of the surrounding lamp posts.  It was hollow in the middle, a wire frame of latitude and longitude lines supporting the continents.  The globe was huge and towered over him.  He reached into his jacket and pulled the old newspaper out from the inside pocket.  He unfolded the page he’d taken from Stark’s warehouse, and there it was, just as it looked in the photo.  The globe and some sort of monorail track around it.  That was long gone, replaced by something far more extravagant and powerful, but the landmark of the Expo was the same.  Seventy-two years ago, Bucky and Steve had probably stood right here.

Sam looked around, still panting, still searching.  There _had_ to be something.  Most of the buildings were set pretty far back, all of them featuring the Stark Industries logo.  There was one, though, that wasn’t.  It was smaller, older.  Red brick in a sea of sleek, modern structures.  Before he knew what he was doing, he was heading toward that, equal parts curious and worried.  As he got closer, the building’s purpose became clear.  “A History in Innovation” the sign at its front walk proudly proclaimed.  And Sam just _knew._   He stiffened with excitement and fear before jogging up the walk to the doors.  They were unlocked.  It was hard to tell, but he could see the lock was ever so slightly damaged, evidence that someone broke in.  It was almost like a professional had gotten sloppy, leaving behind such a tell.  Or had lost his nerve.  Or had been _compromised._ “Fury,” he whispered into the comm link, “I think I got him.  Got me on the GPS?”

“Roger,” came Fury’s equally hushed voice.  “On my way.”  There was more talk, orders about forming a perimeter and the like, but Sam thumbed down the volume on his earpiece until he could barely hear it.  Then he checked his guns, debating on walking in with one drawn but deciding against it.  Instead, he pulled Steve’s shield.  He slid his arms through the straps, clenching the worn leather tight in his fist, and held it protectively in front of his chest.  Drawing a deep breath, he proceeded.

It was cold, but some lights were on, almost welcomingly so.  Soft, golden illumination covered everything in oddly appropriate sepia tones.  Sam walked inside painfully slowly, one hesitant footfall at a time.  There were displays left and right, filled with memorabilia and information about the heyday of Stark Industries.  Howard Stark’s legacy.  The history of the Stark Expo, all the way from its first year in 1943 up through the eighties and nineties to today.  He walked along, giving the exhibits quick looks.  There was nothing overly interesting.  His gooseflesh prickled in tense fear, every shadow suspect.  Nobody attacked.  There was no sign of anything, in fact.  Rattled, he followed the timeline, a coincidental (or maybe not – this was oddly appropriate when he thought about it) path into the past, leading him (he hoped) to what he needed.  He wound his way through the museum.  Finally, he found himself at the rear of the building.

The first Stark Expo was there in all of its glory.  The much smaller Modern Marvels Pavilion was displayed as a model in the center of the carpeted room.  At the other end, there was a theater of sorts, open to its surroundings.  The newsreels were playing on a large screen, showing a young, suave Howard Stark on a stage (a much smaller one than what Tony Stark currently used), flanked by flashy girls and standing in front of a gleaming car.  It was about something called Stark Gravitic Reversion technology that could theoretically make cars fly ( _the irony,_ Sam thought).

“Holy cow.”  It was nothing more than an astonished murmur from the figure down below the movie screen.  There, against all odds, standing in the flickering light of the projector and watching the presentation, was Barnes.

Sam stopped dead in his tracks.  He needed backup _now_ , but he didn’t dare even whisper into the comm line.  Barnes was stock still, staring up at the image of Howard Stark with confusion and pain splayed all over his unshaven face.  Like this he looked… young.  Vulnerable.  Like a man caught between an incongruous and innocent moment in his past and all the hell of his future.  Sam had no idea what sort of place he was in, crazy or violent or broken down into nothing.  A combination of all of that and worse, even.  But he chanced a step forward.  And another.  And _another._   Again he drew a deep breath to calm his raging heart.  “Bucky?”

Bucky turned, and his steely eyes focused on Steve’s shield first before Sam’s face.  He didn’t seem to understand that, his expression tightening in confusion.  Sam expected an attack, to be honest, and he tensed his body and his grip on Steve’s shield.  But Barnes only turned back to the footage playing.  It was repeating, over and over again.  Stark wowing the crowds, smiling coyly, laughing confidently even when his invention failed.  Barnes squinted, like he was trying to piece together a jig-saw puzzle without having the finished picture by which to work.  Like he was trying to piece together his memories.  “I…  I knew him,” he finally said as the silence dragged on.  “I know I did.”

Sam didn’t know what to say.  “Yeah.”

Barnes turned back to the image of Stark.  “He was…”  _My mission,_ Sam expected, but that wasn’t what Bucky said.  “He was… my friend.”  His face tightened into an expression of dismay.  “I killed him.  I…”  Suddenly he was looking down at his hand, the metal one, that taut frown getting even more so.  His lips quivered and his eyes filled with wetness.  “I have this memory.  Car’s off the road.  Down the side.  I go after it to confirm.  Car’s destroyed.  She’s dead.  No reason to check.”  He was rattling the details off like some sort of report.  “He’s… he doesn’t look right.”  Sam was tempted to wonder in what way.  Older than the Howard Stark he’d known when he’d been a Howling Commando, perhaps.  Or did he mean that Stark hadn’t been dead?  Mutilated, but not dead.  Or maybe even then there’d been some spark of defiance, something that had connected Stark as his mission with Stark as the man he’d known from the war.  Bucky’s eyes were unreadable.  “Neck’s broken, but it’s not fatal.  I lean over him to complete my mission.  I lean over him… and he…  He shouldn’t see me.  He shouldn’t.  But he says…  He says… _Bucky._ ”  _Jesus._   Sam swallowed through a dry throat.  “He knew me.  He did.”  The metal hand tightened into a fist.  “Was that real?”  Sam had no answer.  “Been trying to figure that out.”

“I know,” Sam softly said.

Barnes’ face darkened.  The silence that came between them was vicious and tense.  “I smothered him.”  Sam felt sick.  Tears were suddenly tracking down Barnes’ dirty cheeks.  The fist shook.  “I put my hand over his mouth.  He couldn’t struggle.  I can… I can remember what that felt like.  Put it there and crushed his nose.  Didn’t need much pressure.  Was nothing.  Nothing.”

Again, what could he possibly say to this?  To any of it?  To the countless murders and assassinations the Winter Soldier had committed?  To the prisoners he’d tortured?  The lives he’d ruined?  He’d been used against his will, his identity ripped away, his free will destroyed.  He’d been twisted and battered and brutalized, but maybe that wasn’t enough of an excuse.  And maybe there was nothing he could say, nothing he could offer this man to make any of that right.

But maybe not.  Maybe this journey Barnes had taken, this crusade through his distorted past, hadn’t just been for answers.  “You want to make things better,” Sam said softly.  Barnes lifted his gaze to him, and it turned sharp and accusatory.  Sam didn’t back down, despite how frightening the intensity of that look was.  “You want to find some redemption.”  There was no answer to that.  Sam forced himself to stay calm and steadfast.  He was really hedging his bets on the fact that underneath the murderer there was a good man.  Steve thought so.  That was hard and fast in Steve’s mind, heart, and soul, and Sam knew it.  “You want absolution.  So help me.”

Barnes said nothing.  He looked away, down into the shadows at his feet.  That metal hand was still clenched into a crushing fist.  Sam kept his frustration under control.  If he pushed too hard…  “Steve’s sick.  You know Steve.  You care about Steve.  You saved him before, back in Times Square.  Back in Prague.  Steve’s really sick.  He’s dying.  Right now as you and I talk here, he’s _dying._ ”

A blink and a breath.  The metal fingers unfurled ever so slightly.  “Steve,” came a breathy whisper.

Sam allowed himself to think that maybe he was getting somewhere again.  “Steve,” he repeated, hoping the name would sink in.  He raised the shield nonthreateningly, the shield that Barnes himself had kept safe for weeks.  _Let this mean something to him,_ he prayed.  _Please, God, let this get through…_   “Steve Rogers.  Your friend.  He’s my friend, too.  I’m trying to save his life.  That’s why I’m here.”

Barnes looked confused.  “Steve?”

“Yes.”

“Captain America.”  He said that like he couldn’t reconcile a bunch of conflicting images and facts.  He probably couldn’t.

Sam nodded.  “Yeah.  Captain America.”

Barnes winced, his brow furrowing further.  “He… he tried to get me.”  Sam didn’t understand.  “Wanted me to give me his hand…  Tried.  Couldn’t reach.  I was falling.  He didn’t catch me.”  _Oh, shit._   He had to imagine things weren’t coming back to Barnes with any rhyme or reason.  And he had to imagine that _this_ was not the thing he needed to be remembering right now.  “He let me fall.”

Now Sam shook his head.  “No.  No, he didn’t.  It was…”  _An accident.  One of those things that happened that changed the course of the century._ “Please, _please_ , listen to me.  Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you think, it’s alright.  We can make it right.”

Barnes wasn’t listening.  “He…  I fought with him.  There was a… a…”  He wasn’t in his right mind.  Not completely.  But Sam could see him trying to pull things together, all these disparate and maybe contradictory memories that were emerging from the programming.  ”HYDRA,” he whispered, and there was genuine fear there, so much of it that Sam felt sick.  And just like that, he made to run again.

“No!  No!” Sam gasped, lurching forward before he thought better of it.  Somehow he got his fingers tight around Barnes’ right wrist.  The contact felt so incredibly dangerous, but he held on and stopped him.  He expected that metal fist to come careening toward him, and he raised Steve’s shield almost automatically, but it didn’t.

“Let me go,” Barnes gasped.  His eyes were wide with terror.  “Let me go!”

“No,” Sam said calmly, even though he did release Barnes’ arm.  Sympathy rushed through him, grief and so much regret, but he couldn’t back down now.  “No, I need you to listen to me.  We’re not HYDRA.  We’re not going to hurt you.  You remember what I told you before?”  The open, raw panic in Barnes’ eyes was even more disturbing, but still Sam went on.  “The serum in your blood can save Steve.  Do you understand me?  Please, man.  _Please._   Come back with me.  You’re the only one who can save him.”

“No!” Barnes shouted.  He wrenched further away.

Anger rose up inside of Sam.  “You’re his best friend.  I _know_ you know that.  You know how I know?  Because he loves you.”  Barnes’ face softened just a bit.  “He practically killed himself to find you!  He would have done anything to save you.  He still would.”

“He can’t,” Bucky hissed.  “He can’t change anything.  His friend?  He’s dead.”

Sam shook his head in frustrated confusion.  His friend?  _He means himself.  He means Bucky._ “Bucky–”

“I told you!  I can’t be Bucky!  _I’m not Bucky!_ ”

If there was any chance Fury didn’t know where they were, that had probably dashed it.  Sam refused to be daunted.  “You are to him,” he insisted.  “You took care of him when you were kids.  You helped him when he got hurt, when he got sick.  He loves you like his brother.  I could be his best friend for the rest of my life, and I’d still never touch what he has with you.  What he’s given to _you._ You wanna let HYDRA take that away?  You wanna _throw it away_?”

Barnes was lost.  His eyes were hollowed out again, like he couldn’t comprehend any of this.  “I…  I don’t want it.  I’m not…”

“Not what?  Not worthy?  Not good enough?  Well, he thinks you are.  He has so much faith in you to do the right thing, even after all this awful shit, that he let you go.  So come on.  Every second we spend here arguing is one less we can use to save him.  It might already be too late.”  The words came before he could think about them.  Barnes flinched, and Sam regretted it for a moment.  His own irritation and exhaustion was ridding him of his compassion for this situation, though, and maybe the harsh truth would do better than coddling.  He thought about Stark, thought about how he’d feel learning about all of this, and he was ashamed to admit that pushed him further.  “Look, you’ve done some horrible stuff.  You killed Howard and Maria Stark.  You shot Natasha.  You murdered so many people, tortured… tortured Steve.”  Barnes cringed.  _Good._   “Start to make it right.  Come with me.”  Barnes turned away, shaking now.  Sam had his hands in there, in his head and heart.  The urge to _rip_ was ridiculously strong, but he forced his voice to be softer.  “You know what he means to everyone.  To the world.  You know what Captain America means to our world.  You know him.”

“No,” Barnes whimpered.  “No, no.  It’s too much.”

“We can’t let him die!”

“What do you want from me?” Bucky screamed.  _“What?”_

“We need your blood.  Come back with me to the Tower.  _Come back._ ”

Rage broke free of Barnes’ restraint, and suddenly the Winter Soldier was rounding on him.  Sam instinctively took a step back, terrified that he’d pushed too far.  “Don’t you fucking get it?  Don’t you see?”  Eyes wild with torment, with fear and violence and a shattered soul, flashed wildly.  “There’s no going back!  There’s no way to fix this!”

“Try,” Sam implored. “ _Please._   You’re the only one who can!  You want redemption?  Take it!  This is how!”

Barnes just howled in misery, torn, coming apart at the seams.  The man beneath the machine was struggling to be the man again only to find he was damaged beyond repair.  And there was nowhere to go to repair the faulty programming.  No way to reset the directives, to wipe these memories and return to the comfort of oblivion where thought, emotion, and conscience were silent.  No handlers.  No HYDRA.  Nothing.  It had all degenerated and degraded to this, and all that remained of the Winter Soldier was a throbbing nerve, continually firing in pain, madness, and grief.  Relief was seemingly impossible.  Sam watched him curl in on himself, like there was physical agony assailing him, and he wanted to help but he didn’t know how.  He didn’t even know how to convince him to save Steve.  “Bucky, come on.  Steve needs you.  _Steve needs you._ ”

“I can’t,” he moaned into his hands.  “Don’t you see?  No answers.  No way I can make it right.  We’re both ruined.  It’s… it’s already fucked up.  It’s already too late.”

Tears burned Sam’s eyes, and his own pain became too much to stifle.  “Then this is it.  The goddamn end of the line.”

Something about that made Barnes look up, eyes wide and horrified, mouth limply open, panting weakly through dry, parted lips.  Then he ran.

Sam just watched him go.  He didn’t realize until after the fact that Fury and a few of the guards had arrived behind him, guns at the ready.  Maybe that was what had scared Barnes off.  Maybe it had been what he’d said, and, like Barnes had said before, it was all too much.  It didn’t matter.  Barnes was gone, melting into the shadows, and there was no point in chasing him.  There was no convincing him.  There was nothing to convince.

The others flanked him.  Fury was a tad breathless, glaring at Sam.  “Where is he?”

Sam could hardly muster the energy to answer, but he did, gesturing weakly to the darkness ahead.  “He ran.”

“Shit,” Fury breathed, and the spy ran, too.  “Come on, Wilson!”  When Sam didn’t, Fury stopped and looked back at him.  “What the hell’s the matter?”

Sam’s voice was hardly anything, just a defeated murmur.  “He’s not going to help.”

Fury looked like he couldn’t comprehend that, that somehow in this screwed up mess of a situation _that_ was the thing that didn’t make sense.  Maybe it was.  Sam was suddenly grateful in a bitter sort of way that Steve would pass without ever knowing how badly he’d been betrayed.

This wasn’t enough – this moment of absolute _defeat_ wasn’t enough – to stop Fury.  He simply turned with a flutter of black leather and kept going.

Sam didn’t.  The world faded.  It took a moment for him to fade with it, for him to collapse to his knees and then shift onto his rear, for him to pull Steve’s shield in front of him and hold it tight.  The sharp edges dug into his chest, but he didn’t care.  He stared, shocked beyond any thought, at the footage of Howard Stark and his damn flying car as it played over and over again.  A frozen moment in time before HYDRA had shattered the future.  So much damage.  So many lives destroyed.  Barnes was right.  There was no way to make this right.  The past was set in stone, and redemption was out of reach.  This longshot, this last hope…  None of it mattered.

All that was left now was for him to go home, to go back and apologize to Natasha for failing.  If he was lucky enough, Steve would still be alive when he got there so he’d have a chance to say goodbye.


	15. Chapter 15

That awful feeling that _this was going to go wrong_ stuck with Clint even as he and Jacques drove the van closer to the bank.  The night was so damn dark but eerily tranquil, picturesque with snow softly falling.  It was perfectly quiet.  Across the street there were Christmas lights adorning some of the storefronts and lampposts, glowing faintly in golds, greens, and reds.  The trees that flanked the entrance to the bank were similarly festooned.  For some reason, that caught Clint’s eye, the look of the lights around the evergreens.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d celebrated Christmas.  No, that wasn’t entirely right.  He was… nine?  Maybe ten.  His dad hadn’t been drunk.  He’d stayed off the juice for a while, for a few months, and he was holding down a steady job.  And his mom had been hesitantly hopeful things were getting better, hopeful enough to splurge and buy gifts for Christmas.  It had been a nice one, sweet and full of real happiness.  The horrors of everything else had seemed very far away.  A real Christmas tree surrounded by real presents and real laughter and good food and good cheer.  They’d been a family.  Years ago.

“Focus, kid,” snapped Jacques, “or I’ll call the fucking Feds on you myself.”

He snapped out of his haze and picked up his pace.  It was snowing heavily now, enough that it would hide their tracks in short order as they ran across the parking lot.  He checked his gun again and his bow, which was slung over his shoulder.  Bounding after Jacques, he rounded the side of the building.  They’d already made arrangements with one of the night shift guards to kill the alarm and open the fire escape door for them.  In return for his help, he’d get a piece of the loot.  Clint knew how willing Jacques was to share.  The minute they tapped on the door and gave the signal, he readied himself for what was coming next.

 The door opened, revealing the portly guard, their would-be co-conspirator, and Jacques stabbed him in the throat before he could even speak.  The body fell with a thud, the blood black in the night.  Jacques cared nothing for that, stepping over the corpse and boldly strolling inside.  Clint followed after pausing to pull the heavy man to the side so the door could be closed all the way.  Drawing his bow and nocking an arrow, he ran, sticking tight to the shadows in the dimly lit hallway.  There were offices and such around them, all dark and abandoned with the late hour.  Ahead the corridor turned and then emptied into the bank’s polished marble lobby.  It was a spacious place, and the chatter of the guards at the security desk echoed.  “What the hell’s gone on with Donny?  He’s been gone a while.”

 _Donny’s dead,_ Clint thought in grim amusement, and with Jacque’s small, curt nod, he attacked.  He moved from the darkness like a shadow himself, fleet and agile as he darted across the lobby.  They never saw him coming, which was _exactly_ how he preferred it.  These guys were absolutely no match for him.  He pulled on his bow, shooting as he ran, and the arrow found its way into the lower back of the first oblivious guard.  He let out a shriek, flailing, but before his buddies could pull the alarm or reach for their side arms, he was on them.  He swept the legs out from under one, sending the guy roughly to the unforgiving floor flat on his back, and grabbed the other by his hair.  Down his forehead went into the desk, the bang loud enough to reverberate through the lobby.  He slumped against the wood.  “Oh, shit!  Jesus!”  The man he’d dropped was fumbling for his gun, but Clint whirled, kicking it away.  His boot found his way into the guard’s temple, and he lost consciousness.

The guy with the arrow in his back was bleeding all over the pristine, shiny floor.  He saw Clint stalk closer, swathed in shadows as Duquesne cut the power to the bank to get into the vault.  The man shook his head, regarding him like he was a wraith or a demon or…  “No,” he gasped, his face covered in sweat and locked in a pained, terrified grimace.  “No, please.  No!”

But Clint didn’t kill him.  He hadn’t killed any of them.  He crouched, trading his bow to his left hand, balled his right into a fist, and rammed that into the guard’s head.  He, too, was knocked out cold.  Clint stood straight again, looking around the now quiet lobby.  With the power entirely out, shafts of illumination from the world outside made the area seem vacuous and strange.  Again, an ethereal peace somehow settled over everything, snow softly falling, pretty lights from the trees outside.  Clint made his way to the desk.  He disarmed the alarm system with a twist of a key in the console.  Then he fished another set of keys from the back pocket of one of the guards and ran to the main doors of the bank.  He undid the lock.  Now all he needed to do was go back and help Jacques leave with the loot.

His boots squeaked once on the floor as he ran to the rear.  He grimaced at the noise – _damn it_ – and jumped straight over a dividing teller’s counter into the back.  It didn’t take much to find the vault.  Jacques had already disarmed the security measures.  The man set to guard the vault lay dead in the cages outside it, his throat slit.  His keys were also missing, and the inner doors were open.  Jacques was beyond that, emergency lights dousing him in red like blood.  He was already loading cash into one of the duffel bags they’d brought.  Clint wordlessly went to help him.  Stuffing as much in as they could carry (tens of thousands of dollars in bundles), they tossed the bags to the door.  A few silent moments later, Jacques glared up at him.  “Go,” he ordered.  “I’ll finish up.”

Clint ran back to the cages and hefted the duffel bags there, two in one hand and a third in the other.  With long, efficient strides, he cleared the bank’s vault and swiftly made his way across the silent lobby.  He smiled to himself, wanting to laugh at how stupidly nervous he’d been before.  That bad feeling had been bullshit, the product of too much drinking and not enough sleep.  Bullshit paranoia.  This was easy.  This was–

“Freeze!  FBI!”  He did.  He had to.  He’d stupidly unlocked the door.  The lights were out.  The Feds had gotten the jump on them.  And he _knew_ that voice.  His heart stopped in his chest, cold sweat breaking out all over his body.  There was a gun pointed right at his temple.  _No.  Not this._   “Drop your weapons.”  He didn’t move.  He couldn’t.  “Did you fucking hear me?  Drop the weapons!  Drop the bags!”  He still couldn’t move.  He knew he should.  He _knew_ he could kill the man who had him at gunpoint, that this was what he’d been trained to do.  He could pull the knife from the sheath strapped to his thigh or the gun from his hip.  He could do that faster, turn faster, fight faster, murder faster.  He _could_.  But he didn’t.  “Drop your weapons!”

“Don’t,” he softly pleaded.  “Walk away.”

“I can’t let you do this!  Clint, for God’s sake…  _Drop your weapons!”_

Clint opened his eyes.  He jerked forward with a sharp breath, disorientation leaving him reeling, until he remembered he was in a car.  He was in a car with Laura and her family, and they were on the run.  “Easy,” Laura hushed from the driver’s seat, glancing over him worriedly.  Her hand reached across, hesitant for a second while Clint gasped through receding horror and panic before grasping his arm.  “Easy.  You’re alright.  You’re safe.”

 _Safe._   That was what she promised.  That was what she was.  _Safe._

“Where are we?” he ground out in a hoarse voice once he got his heart to stop pounding in his throat.  He sat up more fully, rubbing at his eyes, squinting as he looked out into the night.  It was very dark now and very late, well after midnight.  The road in front of them was deserted, the truck’s headlights cutting through the misty drizzle.

“Just outside Des Moines,” Laura answered.  Clint blinked at the dashboard clock; he’d been sleeping for a little more than an hour.  It had probably been something of a risk to return to the farmhouse after HYDRA had attacked them, but it had turned out to be a smart choice.  He’d had Laura park some distance away at the end of the long drive and down the road slightly, and he’d gone in alone to scope it out.  There’d been no sign anyone had been there.  Everything had been exactly as they’d left it, the home dark but secure.  Lucky had been happy and excited to see him.  With the gun clenched in his bloody hands, he’d checked every inch of the place, upstairs and down.  No shattered windows or damaged doors.  No indication of any danger or a break-in.  Satisfied, he’d run back to the car and told Laura it was safe.  For a moment then they’d rethought their plan to run.  Maybe HYDRA hadn’t made the connection between their car, their family, and this location, and he should go out on his own, letting the innocent people who’d been roped into this disaster stay behind.  Laura had been unwilling to send him out alone, injured, and hunted by his enemies, and frankly Clint had been reluctant to leave, too.  Simply because HYDRA hadn’t been there yet didn’t mean they wouldn’t come soon.  Therefore the idea had been quashed before it had been seriously considered, and Laura had driven the terrified family to their house.

From that moment, it had been a flurry of activity.  After bandaging Clint’s damaged hand, Laura had taken Lila and Cooper, both of whom had been silent and crying for most of the time since the attack, upstairs to find clothes, toiletries, and blankets.  Clint had told them to pack sparingly before he’d limped rapidly into the kitchen, grabbing nonperishable food, bottled water, and the first aid kit.  All of this they’d stuffed into her ex’s old, beat-up truck that had been hibernating in the garage beside the house.  Clint had fiddled under the hood a moment to jump the dead battery off the battered sedan, and the engine had roared to life.  The kids had piled into the back of the cab with all their things.  Despite how much it pained him, Clint had given Lucky a boost so he could climb up into the truck.  Just as Laura had slid into the driver’s seat, he’d run back into the house, reassuring her that he’d be right back.  Up the stairs he’d climbed, aching and exhausted, but every second had felt to be one they couldn’t spare so he’d surged on, heading back into his sick room to find the sword.  It had still been there, idle and gleaming in the faint light.  He’d stared at it a moment, a million awful memories prying at his resolve, before taking it up and running back down to the truck.  They’d sped off into the night, the kids looking worriedly back, Clint looking worriedly forward, and Laura looking worriedly at him.  _“Where are we going?”_ she’d asked.  _“Where?”_

 _“I know a place.”_   That had been two hours ago.  Once the immediate threat of being found dissipated, the kids had fallen asleep in the back, surrounding by pillows and blankets with Lucky between them.  Clint had kept a dark, watchful eye, and he and Laura had driven for some time in tense silence.  She’d had concerns, questions, doubts.  Those hurt most of all, even if she hadn’t voiced them.  She’d simply followed his directions without a second thought, even now after his mere presence had almost gotten her and her children killed.  Even now, when they were on the run from HYDRA and she and her family were involved in a fight in which they had no business being involved.  Even now, after her kids had seen men shot and killed.  _Even now._   She trusted him, and he felt terrible, his innards all twisted up in knots just thinking about how little he deserved that.  There was so much at stake.  More than Steve’s life and Natasha’s heart.  More than the twins.  This woman, who’d done nothing but open her home and her arms and…  _Her heart.  You know it._   This woman was in danger because he’d spread his darkness onto her and her children.  Of all the evil things he’d done, of all the things for which he could never atone, this somehow felt to be the worst.

“Are you alright?” Laura eventually asked, wresting him from his thoughts.

Clint heaved another sigh, wincing at the ache in his belly.  He’d aggravated quite a few of his wounds during the scuffle before, not the least of which being a few torn stitches.  Thankfully it wasn’t bad enough to warrant treatment at the moment.  His hand was throbbing in time with his heartbeat, though, where it was limply clutching one of the handguns on his thigh.  The sword…  It felt wrong, vile to hold it like this, but he couldn’t cast aside a good weapon simply because he didn’t care for from where he’d gotten it.  It was braced against the seat between his legs, still wrapped protectively in a blanket.  Despite that, despite all the turmoil and guilt blackening his heart, despite his aches and pains, he was alright.  He made himself focus on that.  He had to _focus_.  Here on this lonely country road, far from the world he’d known as a SHIELD agent and Avenger and steeped so deeply in the cold, damp of night, it was hard to.  This was too close to the past.  Too close to everything he’d tried so hard to leave behind.  But he made himself answer.  “Yeah, I’m alright.”  He tore his gaze from the road ahead to her dark, brown eyes, somehow so light despite the heavy shadows all around them.  “Are you?”

She wasn’t.  That was obvious in the way her hands had been shaking, in the way she faltered when she assured Lila and Cooper that everything was okay.  In the way she looked at him now, not quite the same way she had before.  “Yeah,” she answered on a breath.  “I’m fine.”

They were silent again, the sound of the road beneath the truck’s tires loud and lulling.  Clint wasn’t about to fall back to sleep, though.  Not with the nightmares looming.  He was getting closer and closer to it, it seemed.  The undeniable truth.  This was probably what he deserved, living the life he did.  Natasha had perhaps thought herself to be the only one drowning in lies, but that wasn’t the case.  He’d been so damn good at hiding that, even from himself.

“Where are we going?”

The tone of her voice was different than when she’d asked before.  Not any less trusting but more demanding.  “A place I know,” he explained.  He swallowed through a tight throat.  “Should be there by morning.  It’s a safe house.”

“A safe house?”

“I used to use it for SHIELD missions if I needed somewhere to lay low.”  That was about all he could say.  Anything else was too damn much.  The truth was _too damn much_.

She realized there were things he wasn’t telling her.  He could feel her sideways glance, worried but wondering, curious even, and he once again felt like a complete asshole for lying.  Even lying by omission was wrong in a fundamental way when it came to her.  And somehow she saw through it anyway.  “Someplace that has something to do with Barney?”  He stiffened despite himself – _how the hell does she know?_ – and gave her a sharp look.  This time she wasn’t so sheepish about it.  “You were talking more in your sleep.”  Clint bit his tongue hard enough to taste blood, looking back out into the night and the lonely road ahead.  _Not so lonely._   Not if he didn’t want it to be.  “Who was he?”  _It doesn’t have to be like this._   That came unwanted but so forcefully, like a part of his mind was trying to remind him of things he’d learned at SHIELD, things he’d learned by mentoring and partnering with Natasha.  Things he’d learned as an Avenger, by seeing Natasha and Steve happy with and in love with each other.  The warm, bitter taste on his tongue was repulsive, but he kept biting all the same because the pain reminded him of who he was.  “He must have meant something to you.”

“He was nobody,” he said gruffly, and again it came out so much harder than he meant it to.  Twenty-five years of lying was difficult to overcome.

Laura was off-put for a moment.  She readjusted her hold on the steering wheel of the truck, unsettled by his second brusque dismissal of this topic.  “You think I don’t know you.”

“You don’t,” he returned, “and you don’t want to.  Trust me.”

She bristled.  This was where he had to push her away.  This was where he had to.  Their entire fucked up situation, the danger they faced and the uncertainties before them, hadn’t managed to.  She was too good, too pure, for that.  But that was the only way this could end.  Her saving his life and getting tangled up in this mess was horrible, but it was safe in a way.  Anything more he couldn’t have.  She got under his skin, under his lies, cut straight to his heart, and he couldn’t face that.  He _needed_ to push her away.  “Okay,” she finally said, “I admit that I don’t know the facts.  I don’t know much about you, not who you were or what you did.  I only know what SHIELD knew, and I get the feeling that SHIELD didn’t know anything at all.”

“No,” he agreed quietly.  Darkly.  Fury had sealed the records.  _Convenient.  Cowardly._   “They didn’t.”

She tightened her jaw slightly, her dark eyes tense with determination.  “But I know everything that matters.  I watched you fight for your life.  Honestly, I didn’t know if you were going to make it.  You were bleeding badly, and there wasn’t much I could do without calling for help.  I almost did so many times.  But I couldn’t.  I couldn’t because as crazy as it was, I had faith.  I had faith in you because I saw the way my son looked at you.  To him, you’re Hawkeye.  You’re an Avenger.  Anything else is in the past.”  _It’s not that simple._   What was it Fury had said?  _The past always seeks its due._   “And I watched you, Clint.”  She glanced at him again, her voice growing firmer and firmer.  “Yes, you talked in your sleep.  You talked a lot.  And maybe I don’t know what happened to you and maybe I don’t know why.  Maybe I don’t know what you did.  But I do know someone with that much regret in his heart doesn’t deserve whatever hell he thinks he has coming to him.”

Quiet returned, thick with discomfort.  Clint wrestled with himself, with that same need to _get away_ from his dream that he still couldn’t shake, with this feeling of dark inadequacy.  “Hell, huh?”  He grunted half a chuckle.  “You know…  I wasn’t lying to Cooper.  That wasn’t the first time in the last few months I almost bought the farm, so to speak.”  He couldn’t contain a laugh at his own lame joke.  Scraped raw and battered senseless, it only seemed fitting.  “Captain America saved my life.  He’s so damn good and pure inside that he was able to sacrifice a piece of himself to save me.”  The words just came.  He didn’t know why.  And, for once, he didn’t try to stop them.  “The thing I didn’t tell Cooper was that I was dead before he did it.  Dead for two hours.  _Dead._   That… _thing_ that the media caught on film terrorizing Times Squares?  He killed me.”

She said nothing to that, glancing at him once more before looking ahead, but her face was pale and her eyes were filled with pain.  Clint let those words sink into the silence, sink into his heart.  He let himself really feel them.  It wasn’t as if he’d been denying it these last few months; it was hard with the evidence of it as blaringly loud as the near silence every time he took out his hearing aids.  Despite the moments he’d talked about this with Sharon, though, or with Natasha, this felt like he was being honest.  Genuine.  _Open._   “I still don’t quite understand how Rogers did it.  Something about sharing his life with me because mine was, well, gone.”  The words came out strained and bitter, so much so that he hardly recognized his own voice.  “Captain America had to give up a piece of himself to save me.  You don’t know how… how…”  He tempered it all for her sake.  “How _screwed_ _up_ that was.  That stuff you think you read about it?  About me?  It didn’t include the fact that about a month before that I had to help HYDRA capture and torture him.”  Laura was quiet.  Clint glanced at her, looking for a reaction.  There wasn’t one.  For some reason, that made him angry.  Like _this_ fact, that he’d been responsible for the capture and torture of a national icon, wasn’t enough to make her turn away.  “Yeah.  I had to do it for the mission.  I had to do it because if I hadn’t, HYDRA would’ve killed millions.  But you know what?  That doesn’t make it any better.  And what’s worse, he’s so damn good that he forgave me, just like that.  Not even just that.  He turned around and _risked his life_ to save me.”

He huffed a little, irritated at the fact he was saying this, at the emotion coloring his tone and making his muscles taut.  “So there’s that fun fact I didn’t tell Cooper.  And Natasha… whatever she was to me.  My partner.  My friend.  My…”  He couldn’t make himself finish.  “She’s his now.  Even she forgave me for what happened.  I…  I can’t forgive myself.  And I can’t let it go.  I don’t know why.  I’m happy for her, and I knew from the moment she started with Cap that he was what she needed.  I knew it, that I couldn’t do anything more for her.  But I’m so goddamn selfish and weak.  I still wish it was me.”

Again they were quiet.  Who the hell was he to tell her all of this?  He grunted ruefully, torn between wanting to go on and wanting to quit before she thought any worse of him.  “Dying wasn’t what the books and movies make it out to be, either.  One second I was fighting.  The next I was waking up in a hospital bed wondering what the hell had happened to me.  There was nothing in between.  Nothing.”  He winced as he remembered it.  Opening his eyes.  Hearing voices that seemed far, far away, distorted and inhuman.  Faint because his brain and ears were damaged.  But he’d recognized blurry faces.  Tony and Bruce.  Sharon.  Natasha.  Something about Steve.  Nothing seemed right.  Nothing _was_ right.  _Nothing._   “I kinda realized after the fact that it made sense.  There was supposed to be something there, this hell I know I deserve for the things I’ve done, but there wasn’t.  I didn’t have a soul to give or a soul to be taken.  I sold mine long ago.”  He narrowed his eyes, the hilt of the sword, expensive and exquisite, blurring as tears burned them.  “First for power.  Then for money.  Then for… for revenge and redemption.  Eventually for what I thought was right.  Duty.  The greater good.  Piece by piece… I lost it.”

He drew a deep breath, the echo of his soft words shaking him.  Now he simply couldn’t believe what he was saying.  Even if it was true, he shouldn’t be saying it.  She didn’t deserve this.  Not this, on top of everything else he’d done.  All the trouble he’d caused her.  She was a stranger, and he was…  “I’m damaged, Laura.  You want to know me?  That’s the truth.  I’m _damaged._   I’m not this hero Cooper thinks I am.  I’m not good enough to be an Avenger.  You know how I know that?  Because I thought for a while that I’d left something there, in that nothing between life and death.  My soul, maybe.  I don’t know.  _Something_ that makes me into a good man.”  He shook his head, and his voice dropped to a low murmur.  “Turns out I was just fooling myself.  All dying did was make me realize that I never had it to begin with.  It was gone, and I’d gotten so used to that…”  His voice faded.  “…that I never even noticed.”

He held that breath, held it until it turned to poison in his lungs and his body ached to expel it, but even then he couldn’t make himself let it go.  It was as if there had been _before_ , before he’d been this honest and vulnerable, and _after_ , every moment from this one on, and no matter how many times he’d counseled Natasha in the worth of trust and faith in human decency, he couldn’t find that faith now.  Still, eventually he had to let that breath go.  Whatever she said now, she’d say.

It wasn’t quite what he’d expected.  She didn’t say anything at all.  She just reached over to his lap and took his hand.  Her fingers wove between his, tender and true, and she swept her thumb over his roughened and scarred knuckles before giving a gentle squeeze.  They drove on into a fathomless night where the past and future seemed to meet and stretch endlessly around them.

* * *

Outside Steve’s room, Natasha and Tony waited.  He was back inside the quarantine cell, once more separated by a barrier of glass and a shield of sterility.  This time it was for his protection, not theirs.  Bruce was inside in a gown, facemask, and gloves, adjusting the equipment flanking his bed.  He attached another bag of something to the IV pole, connecting it to the many others that were hanging there, one of which was disturbingly green.  That dripped down like all the others, the flow controlled by the machine, before entering Steve’s body through one of the IV ports in his arm.  That was the third bag of the green liquid Bruce had used.  The antiserum he and Betty had developed from the Hulk.  So far, so good.  The Hulk’s blood hadn’t outright killed him (which Bruce apparently had considered as a possible outcome).  Their attempts to destroy Steve’s own immune system to make way for the new one powered by the Hulk’s enhanced cells had been moderately successful.  Bruce seemed pleased, not entirely happy with the results but satisfied enough to go on.  Honestly, the others had gotten the impression he hadn’t tried any further to shut down Steve’s immune system because of the stress it was causing his already damaged and depleted body.  Otherwise, things were proceeding according to plan.  It would be another couple of hours before they knew if it was doing any good.  At the moment, Steve’s vitals were still deplorable, one step from death if they let themselves admit it.  And at the moment, there was nothing they could do but wait.

Natasha blinked the weariness from her eyes.  They ached so badly, both from exhaustion and from the emotional upheaval, but she only rubbed them yet again and sighed.  There was no way she could sleep now, not when they were so close to having some answers.  She stared at Steve’s limp form, watched his chest move as the ventilator forced air into his lungs.  He was still now.  Seemingly lifeless.  They didn’t know if he was aware at all, but every once in a while Natasha could have sworn his large frame wracked with a shudder or his face twisted into a small grimace or his fingers weakly curled into a shaking fist in the blanket that covered him.  She wasn’t sure if she was imagining it.  Bruce didn’t seem to notice, talking quietly to JARVIS as he adjusted some settings on the monitor.  “Do you think he’s in pain?” she asked softy.  She hadn’t even thought to, and now she was afraid of the answer.

Tony sighed.  For the last few hours since his breakdown in her arms, he’d been at her side.  Calmly and quietly he’d stayed with her for every second, watching as she watched, maintaining a vigil that hours ago she would have angrily dismissed as an act of useless, selfish attrition.  The guilt was still there, of course, but she knew now it was genuine.  As was his worry.  And his fear.  “I don’t know,” he quietly admitted.

Natasha’s throat ached as she swallowed, as she watched Steve twitch against the sheets.  She supposed it would have been too much to hope that he’d be unconscious deeply enough not to suffer through this.  Bruce had dumped poison into his body to try and suppress his immune system (he hadn’t called it that, of course, using long medical terms and fancy words instead, but that was what it was to her mind anyway).  And now he was filtering in more poison, and this was undeniably toxic.  The Hulk’s blood was dangerous, even as modified, distilled, and purified as he and Betty had made it.  Maybe it would jumpstart the serum into fighting now, now that Steve’s contaminated system was weak.  Maybe it could give the serum the power it needed to defeat the virus twisting it by providing much needed antibodies against this virus.  Maybe it would save his life.  Maybe.  There were too many maybes.  Bruce wasn’t confident.

They were quiet again as Banner finished up.  Natasha winced at the ache in her back.  With great effort, she moved away from the glass and headed back to the chair in which she had spent so many hours before.  She sat with a larger grimace contorting her features.  The twins had thankfully been quiet.  Even more thankfully, so had her labor.  She swept her hands over her stomach, letting herself breathe.  Letting her eyes burn.  Letting herself pray.  She’d never believed in God.  That sort of faith had been impossibly distant from the life she’d led, incongruous and irreconcilable.  But she’d been praying continually for the last few hours, longer than that if she was honest with herself.  Praying this worked.  Praying, after all this suffering and anguish, that Steve was spared.  Waiting and praying.  That was to what she’d been reduced.  That was all she had now, so she embraced it, ignoring the harsh voice inside her that reminded her it was weak and foolish.  God (if there was one) couldn’t help her now.  Still…  _Please_ , she thought again.  _Please don’t take him from me.  Please don’t take him from our children.  Please…_

“I, um…”  Tony’s voice drew her from her thoughts, and she belatedly realized she’d dozed in the chair.  She opened her eyes, disoriented with the closeness of sleep, and focused on him.  He grimaced.  “Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” she said.

Tony was hesitant, like he wanted to say something.  Eventually he found the courage to say it.  “I just wanted to say…”  He shifted his weight in an uncharacteristic show of reticence.  Everything about Stark over the last couple of days had been uncharacteristic, vulnerable and humbled in a way she hadn’t thought possible of him.  He cleared his throat, blinked his eyes a few times like he was trying to hold back tears, and sniffed.  “I just wanted to tell you that no matter… no matter what happens here, no matter what happens to Steve, I’m going to take care of you.”  She opened her mouth to object, the fact that he thought she needed him rubbing her all wrong despite how tired and worn she was, but he went on before she could.  “Steve made me promise him.  Back before when he was kind of with it.  He made me promise to take care of you and the babies.  I’m not trying to imply you need me.  Lord knows you don’t.”  She actually smiled at that.  So did he.  It lasted only a second, but it felt good.  “Still… I’d like the chance to make good on that in whatever way I can.  If it comes to it.”  His smile grew a little broader.  “Between an Asgardian prince and the world’s richest man, those rugrats will have it all.”

“Uncle Tony and Uncle Thor,” she commented.

He nodded, surprised.  “Something like that.”  She smiled more.  This was stupid and silly and not something she’d ever thought she’d care about, but she did.  There was something inherently comforting about it, about the idea of her children having these people to protect them and take care of them.  She knew she didn’t need the help or the money, but it was _there_.  If the worst happened and she… and she lost Steve ( _that’s not going to happen he’s going to be fine this is going to work and I’ll have him back and he’s going to be there when they’re born and everything’s going to be_ fine), she wouldn’t be alone.  As incredible and unpredictable as it seemed, she’d have Tony.  And Bruce.  And Thor.  And Clint, wherever he was ( _he has to be okay.  He has to be because I can’t lose them both_ ).  She wasn’t going to be alone.  Once upon a time, she wouldn’t have cared.  She would have faced anything by herself, fought through it, done whatever was necessary to survive and see her mission complete.  Now…  Now she had a family.

Tony tentatively set his hand to her shoulder.  The gesture was timid, not entirely certain it was welcomed, but she reached up and hooked his fingers into her own.  “Thanks.”  She wasn’t sure what she was thanking him for.  His presence, mostly.  The promise of the future.  There was still pain between them, anger and frustration and grief, but right now, she could see past it.

There were footsteps behind them, and she let go of Tony’s hand to peer over her shoulder.  Thor was there.  He, too, had been with her almost constantly, but he’d left maybe a half an hour ago to call Jane Foster.  Now he was returning, having changed into jeans and a blue Oxford shirt.  His abundant blond hair was gathered into a messy pony tail.  “How does he fare?” he asked as he approached them.

“Bruce is starting the last infusion now,” Tony said, folding his arms over his chest and turning back to the cell.  He heaved a sigh.  “We should know something more soon.”

Thor’s face was stony, not pleased with the idea of needing to wait more.  He wasn’t one given to patience; Natasha had learned that about him almost instantly.  The demigod watched Bruce finish with his final adjustments.  “And there has been no change thus far?”

“No.”

“Does that mean–”

“I don’t know,” Tony interrupted quietly.  He shook his head.  “I don’t know.”

Thor stiffened.  Now he was the one who set his hand to Natasha’s shoulder.  His bearded face softened with compassion.  “Steven is a fighter.  I have known many warriors in my time, and I have rarely seen others that boast his courage, strength of heart, and determination.”  He smiled sadly.  “I went before my father to argue that he is worthy, and I meant every word of what I said.  The fates will spare him.  I am certain of it.  Now is the time where your faith sustains him.”

There was no way Thor could know that.  There was magic on Asgard, she knew.  She’d seen firsthand the sort of powers Thor and his peers possessed.  But seeing into the future was not one of them.  Still, she nodded.  This wasn’t so different from praying.  Thor’s smile shifted into something more knowing, as if he’d never experienced doubt.  “You are made strong by your own mettle, Natasha, and by your love for him and for the children inside you.  There is hope yet.”

The doors to the clean room behind the quarantine cell swished open, and Bruce came out.  He spotted the rest of the team there, and his face collapsed into a worried frown.  He brushed a hand through his hair, mussing it further.  Perspiration glistened on his skin, though whether it was from the heat of the gown and protective gear he’d been wearing or from his emotions, Natasha couldn’t say.  “Let’s give the last infusion a chance to work,” he announced quietly came closer.  He glanced at the StarkPad he was carrying, like he was checking already for results despite advocating for patience.

“When we will know something?” Tony asked.

Bruce seemed reluctant to answer yet again.  He looked up at the monitors displaying Steve’s vitals, his barely beating heart and struggling lungs and uneven temperature.  “I hoped we’d know something by now, to be honest,” he softly admitted.  “He’s still…  Nothing’s better.”  His brown eyes darted to Natasha, and there was nothing but regret in them.  She refused to see that.  She refused to hear his words.  She refused to feel the crushing power of looming defeat.  Instead she grimaced, pushing herself up and out of the chair because staying still had abruptly turned repulsive.  Thor’s hand stayed firm on her shoulder.  She reached up and grabbed Steve’s dog togs through her sweater and squeezed them hard until the blunt edges were once more jabbing into her palm.  Bruce sighed.  “Let’s…  Another hour.  Let’s give it another hour.”

So they gave it another hour.  Nothing was said.  No words of comfort or despair or crazy hope were shared.  The silence was heavy, filled with only pacing feet and shallow breaths and hesitant hearts.  Anxiety and tension permeated the air, jolting nerves until they were raw, twisting stomachs into knots, driving minds in futile ponderings.  Thor stood next to Natasha once she sat again in the chair.  Tony paced, beset with restless energy despite the heavy bags under his eyes and the fatigued tremor that occasional bent his form.  Maria came back, wordlessly taking her place outside the quarantine room as well.  Bruce left for a long while, for most of the hour in fact, and now he returned with Betty.  Ross was pale and haggard, her abundant brown hair drawn into a loose pony tail, the bruise on her temple huge and awful looking.  She was dressed in fresh sweats, though, and her eyes were bright despite her pain.  Bruce pushed her into the room in a wheel chair, and he seemed unhappy which suggested her appearance among them was at her insistence and against his wishes.  Still, he did nothing but help her stand, an arm around her, hands gentle on her as he led her over to the glass barrier of the quarantine cell.  She had the StarkPad from before in her hands, and she looked troubled as she watched Steve in the room beyond.  He hadn’t moved aside from flinching now and then (Natasha was sadly sure she wasn’t imagining that at this point).  Betty shook her head, paling further but eyes _brighter_ still with unmasked denial.  She studied the monitors to see firsthand how Steve was doing.  To determine if their cure was helping all that remained pure of the super soldier serum to fight the virus.  “Did you give him all four doses?”

Bruce nodded sadly.  “Yeah.”

“When?”

“The last one was an hour ago.  It’s not working.”

 _No._   “Give him a fifth,” Betty ordered, her eyes flashing as she looked at Bruce.  “We finished a fifth, didn’t we?”

Slowly Bruce sighed.  “It’s… it’s not doing any good.”

Natasha couldn’t accept that.  Her heart was shuddering in her chest, the room lethargically collapsing around her like time and space were being crushed into a vacuum.  Condensed down into nothing.  Nothing but the thudding of her heart, the weak beeps of the monitors attached to Steve, the twins inside her…  “Let’s get a blood sample to confirm,” Betty insisted.  “It could be moving more slowly than we anticipated.  That will be definitive.”

Bruce winced.  “Betty, he still has a fever.”

“He was hypoxic, right?  There could be issues contributing to his condition right now that have _nothing_ to do with the virus.  Brain damage.  Autonomic dysfunction.”  It was frightening that that was preferable to what they feared.  “Or maybe the fever is the serum kicking into overdrive to correct the hypothermia.  It’s hyperthermia, not a reaction to the virus.”

“We don’t know that–”

“We can’t base our opinion of the efficacy of the antiserum without a blood sample, so let’s get one.”  She spoke the words more firmly this time, brokering no argument, no objection.  There was no heat to her tone, but she was adamant.  Bruce held her gaze a moment more, and his tortured expression was enough to indicate just what he thought the odds of subtle improvement were.  Even still, he nodded.  Thor went closer to Natasha for comfort as the physicist gathered the supplies he needed to collect a sample.  Bruce donned the protective gear again and went inside the cell.  “It had to work,” Betty murmured softly, mostly to herself.  She wasn’t entirely steady on her feet, but Tony was right there in case she toppled.  She didn’t, like sheer will, infallible faith in her work and everything they’d done together, was keeping her going.  “It had to.  We tested it on a blood sample, and it showed promise.  The Hulk’s immune cells were working with the serum to counteract the effects of the virus, so _it_ _had to work._ ”

It was hard not to cling to that.  Natasha clung, and she did so whole-heartedly.  Her eyes went to the monitors anew, hoping _this_ glance would be the one where she saw improvement, but there was still none to be had.  Her gaze then shot down to the inside of the room, where Bruce was entering.  He went to the bed.  His voice was soft, imploring, as he reached its side.  “Steve, can you open your eyes?”  He leaned over, taking Steve’s hand between his gloved ones, counting his pulse.  “Can you hear me?  It’s Bruce.  Can you open your eyes?”  _Please, God, let him open his eyes.  Please open them, Steve.  Please, please, please…_   Bruce heaved a disappointed breath, setting Steve’s arm down.  He pulled open Steve’s eyelids and checked pupil dilation.  He measured reflexes, reactions to pain, and vital signs.  He palpated Steve’s lymph nodes and belly.  He wasn’t pleased with what he found.  Then he took the blood sample.  Steve reacted to the needle stick, a tiny jerk, a barely perceptible flinch.  Maybe he couldn’t hear them, couldn’t open his eyes, but it was as she feared: he was in pain.  That sank down deep into the bottom of her stomach.  “Steve, come on,” Bruce prodded again, frustrated like he just couldn’t accept it.  He took up Steve’s hand again and squeezed hard.  “Open your eyes.”

Nothing.  Not so much as a flutter.  Steve was completely unresponsive.  The machines keeping him alive beeped and swished, and that was all there was.

Bruce closed his own eyes and stood still for a moment.  Natasha could read every hard line of his body, the stiffness of his back and shoulders, the tension in his spine, the way he seemed to be battling for control.  Then he set Steve’s limp hand over his stomach and walked out.  He said not a thing as he took the test tube full of Steve’s blood over to the lab bench.  Betty followed, her steps a little dizzy and uncertain until Tony took her arm and led her over.  Natasha didn’t bother.  She kept her eyes on Steve.  She couldn’t look away, even as the long, silent moments dragged on as Bruce tested the samples.  She couldn’t look away, praying again with every ounce of love she had for her husband.  She wouldn’t look away.  An eternity passed, it seemed, but in reality it was only a few minutes.  JARVIS and the computers here in the Tower were so fast, and now thanks to Bruce and Betty they knew exactly for what they needed to look.

And they found it.  “The blood sample is still infected with the virus,” JARVIS solemnly declared.  “The number of compromised immune cells remains steady between 85 and 90%.”

The world collapsed again.  Before it had been a slow slide, but now it was violent, vicious.  Nauseating.  Natasha closed her eyes.  Everything felt like it was falling, tumbling down into abyss, a black hole that was vast and hungry, but she hung on.  _Hold onto me._   That was what she’d told Steve.  Over and over again, she’d told him.  _Hold on._ She felt her wedding bands around her finger, turned them with her thumb and felt the solid weight of them.  The solid weight of Steve’s dog tags.  The _look_ of him, brought down so low and so defeated, just beyond the glass.  It hadn’t worked.  _It hadn’t worked._

It was Tony who furiously swept all the equipment off the lab bench.  It hit the floor with a smash and a shatter, expensive tools and tablets breaking loudly.  “Goddamn it!” he cried.  His voice was twisted with grief as the last of their hopes _died_.  He didn’t seem capable of catching his breath, leaning into the bench with both arms ramrod straight and his neck and head lowered between them.  “Jesus Christ…”

“The chances weren’t good,” Bruce emptily reminded.  He stared blankly at the test results the computers were still showing him, suffering with defeat himself.  “We needed a pure sample of the serum.  The Hulk…  The chances were never good.  It was a damn longshot.”  His voice shook.  “I’m so sorry, Natasha.”

She hardly heard that.  She wasn’t hearing anything really.

“What now?” Thor asked after an impossibly long period of awful silence.

Betty slumped against the table and shook her head.  She, too, was struggling to contain her grief and guilt.  “There’s nothing more we can do.”

Bruce squeezed his eyes shut in pain, like he couldn’t fathom what he was about to say.  “Maybe…  There might be time to try again.  If we had a pure sample.  If we hurry and deliver the babies–”

“No.”  The word was out of Natasha’s mouth before she even thought to speak.  As soft as it was, it was strong and sure, and it reverberated through the room, through them all.  Through her.  She wrapped her arms around the swell of her stomach.  _You’re not touching my children.  No one will ever touch my children._   _Never.  Steve doesn’t want it.  I don’t want it.  And I promised him._ “No.”

Bruce appeared both relieved and agitated at that.  He was flustered, uncertain of what to say.  It was Maria who broke another miserably long, vacuous moment.  “How much longer will Steve live?”

“Not long.  A few hours,” Bruce said.  “Maybe more.  Maybe less.”

This was it.  All it had come down to.  All that was left.  _A few hours.  If that._    Nobody said anything.  What could be said?  So much suffering and struggle, so many hopes and so much faith, ideas and longshots and remote chances…  Despite everything, this was going to end exactly as they’d feared.  There was no way to stop it now.  _Nothing we can do._

Tony somehow gathered himself.  “Is he…  Is he in pain?”

Bruce closed his eyes again.  “I don’t know.  I don’t know if there’s a way to tell.  He could be.”  That weight in Natasha’s stomach grew heavier and heavier.  She knew where this was going, _knew_ it before the words were even out of Bruce’s mouth.  “Natasha, you might consider terminating life support.”  She stiffened.  Even expecting it, it was repulsive.  Cruel.  She didn’t turn to look at Bruce, not even as Tony and Thor immediately began arguing.  She couldn’t focus on their angry words, either, not on their denial and harsh accusations.  She couldn’t focus on anything.  She felt like she was drifting.  Her breath came in shallow pants, and she squeezed her eyes shut, clenching the dog tags again.  Bruce’s voice cut through the hum of misery in her head.  “If he’s suffering, there’s no reason to prolong it.  He has massive organ failure.  He’s in septic shock.  We’re not going to use the twins to get a sample of the serum, so this is it.”

“What about Barnes?” Tony snapped.

Bruce just looked exhausted, the unwilling advocate yet again for the voice of reason. “What about him, Tony?  He’s not here.  It’s too late.”  Tony floundered like he wanted to fight more but just couldn’t find the words.  Bruce was already moving, anyway, walking across the room to Natasha’s side.  “This is it.  Palliative care.  It’s all we have left.  I can flood Steve’s system with sedatives.  Put him into as deep a sleep as possible.  With the way he’s already down…  He won’t feel it when we shut off the vent.  He’ll go peacefully.  He won’t suffer anymore.”

“No.”  Again, that came without her realizing it.  It came hard and true.  “No.”

“Natasha–”

“I said _no._ ”

Now the silence was burdened with tension.  She refused to look at the others.  _Refused._   Not now.  Not when it had come to this.  Not when she’d been asked to _kill_ her husband.  There was a logical voice in her head that decried her reaction; if Steve was suffering (and he’d suffered so much already), it was wrong to continue to let him do that.  If there was no hope, no chance for him now, nothing more to do…  “Guys, can I speak with Natasha alone for a moment?”

Bruce’s request was met with more silence.  Stiff, unyielding silence.  Natasha finally turned to face the rest of the team.  They were all watching her.  Tony with dread and alarm.  Thor with unbridled sorrow and concern.  Maria’s face was grief-stricken, too, though she was doing her hardest to hide it behind a cracking veil of stoicism.  Betty couldn’t meet her gaze, crippled with pain and guilt strong enough that Natasha actually managed to feel for her.  And Bruce.  Bruce was watching her with calm, insistent eyes.  “Please,” he said to the others.  “Just for a moment.”

Part of her didn’t want them to go.  The other part was calm.  Like she stood in the eye of a storm, and everything around her was dark, twisting, and violent, but she was safe where she was.  Safe in the heart of it, where Steve’s love was keeping her strong.  So she said nothing when the rest of the group left, Thor aiding Betty, Maria with her eyes downcast, Tony lingering because he still couldn’t admit the truth that nothing they’d done had worked.  That this situation wasn’t _fixable_.  She didn’t let that or anything else reach her.  Not where she stood.  Where she stood, nothing could hurt her anymore.

After that, she and Bruce were alone.  Just as they had been every time the team had gone out to fight and they’d been left behind.  A woman about to become a mother and unable to come to terms with it.  A man unable to come to terms with anything, not what he was or what he’d done.  Two damaged people surrounded by heroes.  Despite all the time they’d spent together, she’d learned more about Bruce in the last few days than she had in months.  She’d seen his anger, his uncertainty, his care and concern manifesting themselves in ways that had hurt.  How he used the cold, hard certainties of science and logic simultaneously to protect himself while cutting through the things he deemed as threats.  This had struck home for him, and she knew why.  The insanity serum had only brought to light everything with which he’d never dealt.  His fears were at the heart of that.

This wasn’t the time or the place.  But as she stood there, staring at Steve’s dying body, tranquil in that safe place, she realized that this was where they were.  And she wasn’t going to stand for what he’d said.  “You’re wrong about him,” she said.

“Natasha,” Bruce started, coming closer.  His tone was soft and nonthreatening.  “I’m not wrong about this.  I – I don’t know what the right answer is here.  I just want you to have the options.  Steve’s going to die.  There’s nothing we can do to stop that now.  We’ve tried everything we could, but an alien virus…  There was probably no way we could defeat that.”  He sighed, as if accepting that was draining.  “You can spend the next few hours clinging to hope, waiting and praying maybe for a miracle, if that’s what you want.”  His eyes darted to the bulge of the twins.  “If that’s what you want, that’s fine.  God knows no one would fault you for that, for holding on.  But if you decide to take him off the machines, he’ll die more peacefully.  It might be time to just let him go.  He’s suffered so much.  I don’t want to see him suffer anymore.  I don’t want to see you or the twins suffer anymore, either.”

“You’re _wrong_ about him,” she said again more firmly, ignoring Bruce’s words.  “What you said before, when I thought I was in labor.  You’re wrong about him.  You’re wrong about me.”

Hurt splayed over Bruce’s face.  “Natasha, I–”

“Most of all, you’re wrong about yourself.”  Her eyes narrowed, and she couldn’t help the rush of acid into her voice when she recalled how badly he’d hurt her with his glib proclamations about Steve and what he could have and should have done.  “You think you don’t deserve love.  You think you’re doing her, doing _yourself_ , a favor by running away and keeping your distance.  That that’s better than learning how to change.  You know what, Bruce?  All it’s doing is making you a coward.”  Bruce flinched, and the color drained from his face in shock that they were talking about this.  That she was saying what she was saying.  Maybe she should have been afraid, harshly throwing his hypocrisies in his face when he was already so frayed and worn.  When he’d already lost control because of this situation once before.  But she wasn’t afraid.  She wasn’t sure she’d ever be again after this.  “I know you are because I was one, too.  A coward.  I spent years in SHIELD trying to ignore my past.  I tried to ignore what I was, what they made me into.  They turned me into a killer, someone whose only purpose in this world was to inflict pain and suffering.  A murderer.  _That’s_ what I was.  And I’d be lying if I said a part of me didn’t like it.  There was so much power there, in using people and twisting their hearts and bodies and minds to my bidding.  And I’d be lying if I said on some level and despite all the things they did to me, the torture and the brainwashing and…”  Her hands fell to the twins again, and she almost lost her nerve.  “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t know what I was doing was wrong.  I just didn’t care.”

She shook out a sigh.  “Clint got me out of that and made me see the truth.  Even then, I hid from it, ignored it all.  And it was fine.  I could do some good working for SHIELD.  I could have this dream where I was someone good.  Where I was an Avenger.  Where I was anything other than the assassin they made me to be.  But it was just a dream until I met Steve.  Then I realized running and hiding from my sins wasn’t good enough.  I had to be better.  You know what I did to him, don’t you?”  Bruce weakly nodded.  “I’d like to believe all of it wasn’t my fault, but I know it was.  I still do.  I fell back into that hell, and I took him with me.  One of things I promised myself when I realized I had feelings for him was that I was _never_ going to spread my darkness onto him.  If he wanted a friend, I’d be his friend.  If he wanted more, then I’d find a way to give him more without hurting him.  But I wasn’t strong enough.  I did to him _exactly_ what I didn’t want to do.  I did what they trained me to do.  I used him.  Slept with him.  Manipulated him to get what I wanted.  The Red Room took me back, and I…  I put a bullet in his heart, Bruce.  If that doesn’t tell you how damaged I was, I don’t know what does.”  Her voice softened but didn’t lose its insistence.  “You still think you’re the only monster on the team?”

He blanched even further.  “Natasha…”

“I tried to run away after.  I tried to cut myself off from him because I was scared of what I’d done and how it was making me feel.  I was scared I’d hurt him again.  I was so weak that I didn’t even go to see him after I put him in ICU, just like this.”  She turned her gaze back to Steve.  “I wanted to run, but he wouldn’t let me.”  Like so many times in the past year, the enormity of what he’d done for her left her reeling.  She didn’t stop, though.  “He was strong enough to show me how to be a better person, no matter what I’d done and what I’d done to him.  He was strong enough to love me.  He saw the good in me, and he didn’t stop until I saw it, too.  He had faith in me, and he didn’t let me go.”  She released a cleansing breath.  “It sounds like Betty is trying to do that for you.  And every time you keep your distance or deny it, you’re hurting her.  You’re hurting yourself.  And you’re a damn coward for doing it.”

Bruce’s eyes glimmered.  “That’s not what I wanted.”

“Steve taught me how to make peace with my past.  How to control who I was.”

“It’s… it’s not the same.”

She settled sharp eyes on him.  “Isn’t it?”  Bruce had nothing to say to that.  The wetness in his eyes caught the lights of the room, and he looked away, shaking with a struggle for a different kind of control.  Again he was like a nerve, throbbing and exposed, but Natasha wasn’t afraid.  “We are who we are.  We love who we love.  Betty’s in love with you because she sees who you are and still thinks it’s beautiful.  You should stop trying to throw that away.  You should be close to her, be yourself, and trust that she knows what’s right.  She loves you, Bruce.  Trust yourself to love her back.”  He choked on something that could have been a sob, looking away sharply to hide it from her.

Natasha once more settled her gaze upon her husband.  She took another breath, her voice fading to something barely louder than a whisper.  “And I love Steve.  I’m in love with Captain America.  I don’t want him to be anything else.  If that… if that hurts me, so be it.  I never wanted him to quit.  He doesn’t quit.  He can’t.  That’s who he is.  And just like he has faith in who I am, I have faith in who he is.  He trusts me to love him.”

“Steve is stronger than all of us,” Bruce quietly agreed after a moment.  He wiped at his eyes.  “Thor was right about that.  He has more strength, more determination.  More faith.  But even faith can’t change scientific certainty.”

She burned with tears she refused to shed.  “I can’t do it.  I can’t.  I won’t.  I won’t let him die.”

“He’s… he’s in pain.”

“I can’t let him die,” she said again.  She closed her eyes tight, like that could make the inevitable end disappear.  It couldn’t, and she knew it, but she couldn’t make herself accept it.  “I can’t do that to him.  I can’t give up on him.  He never gave up on me, not even when I deserved it, so I can’t do it to him.  I can’t, Bruce.  I–”

“Natasha.”

The soft, sorrowful call drew her attention.  She turned around, and there was Sam at the door, dirty and completely exhausted.  He was aching and despairing, his dark eyes loaded with tears he was barely holding back.  He had Steve’s shield on his arm.  And he was alone.

_Alone._

“No,” she whispered.

He limped closer, his cheeks shining wetly in the light.  Each step felt impossibly slow and heavy, like a man on his final march.  “He’s not coming,” he whispered.  His voice was weak and laden with grief and anger.  The breath that punched through his lips as he reached her was halting and harsh.  “Barnes…  I tried to tell him, but he’s not coming.  He wouldn’t help him.”

“No.  No!”

Sam’s face crumpled in a sob, and he wrapped his arms tightly around her.  Steve’s shield fell to the floor and hit with a dull, deadened hum.

* * *

Even still, it took Natasha almost an hour to decide to terminate life support.  Even with absolutely no hope, no chance for a miracle, _nothing to sustain her now,_ she needed time to find the strength to do it.  She was Steve’s wife.  The mother of Steve’s children.  This was her call.  _Her call._   Hers and hers alone.

And she had to make it.

All her certainty before seemed selfish now.  As much as she had faith in Steve, unwavering and unfaltering faith, Bruce was right: faith wasn’t enough now.  She couldn’t in any kind of good conscience let him suffer because she was selfish or weak.  She couldn’t do that to him.  Everything she’d said to Bruce about Steve believing in her, trusting in her, making her stronger, a _better person_ …  She’d said it because he’d needed to hear it.  As it turned out, though, she’d needed to hear it, too.  She’d needed to be reminded that she had to do the right thing, that being strong sometimes meant doing something that hurt for the sake of someone else.  Letting Steve go was all she could do for him now.  The only thing she could do to spare him, to save him.  To honor him.  So after an eternity of staring through the glass in the quarantine room, the Avengers gathered silently around her, she finally managed to turn to Bruce and nod.

After that, things moved surprisingly swiftly.  They all went in, one at a time, to pay their respects.  To say goodbye to the young man who’d inexplicably become their friend and leader.  To grieve for their captain.  Natasha stood outside, watching as they did.  There was no reason to prohibit physical contact now, not with his damaged immune system violently raging again.  Maria, in a show of openness and compassion that was entirely incongruous with her normal cold professionalism, leaned down to kiss Steve’s forehead and whisper a few private words.  Thor grasped Steve’s hands desperately, like he wanted very much to implore the other man to fight and not accept this choice, but he stopped himself for solidarity’s sake and instead uttered quiet prayers in a language Natasha couldn’t understand.  The message was clear, however.  A lament for a dying comrade, for a fallen warrior.  For a passing soul.  Tony went no further than the entrance to the quarantine room for a long time, many long minutes stretching by with uncertainty and barely restrained emotion.  Eventually he went to the bed, but even then he couldn’t bring himself to touch Steve.  He couldn’t bring himself to come to terms with this, to accept it.  She wondered if he was thinking of his father, of failing his father, of failing himself.  He didn’t speak, didn’t even breathe, as he stood there with his eyes wet and full of agony.  He left without ever saying anything.  Bruce went in with the powerful sedatives that would drop Steve into deep unconsciousness where the pain and disease couldn’t reach him anymore.  Like a man clinging to the safety of detachment, he methodically went about stringing them into the IV.  He examined Steve once more time.  It seemed perfunctory.  Maybe he was trying to prove to himself that he was right about this being the best they could do.  Maybe he was trying to assure himself that there was still no sign that Steve would come out of this.  Or maybe it was simply his own way of making peace.  A brush of his fingers to Steve’s, of his palm to Steve’s forehead.  He left, too, without a word.

And Sam.  Sam walked in, tears streaming down his face already, head lowered in shame.  Somehow watching him was harder than the others, he who’d gone out on a fool’s quest to save a man he loved like his brother and who had failed through no fault of his own.  He’d barely spoken to anyone since returning, offering no further explanation as to what happened other than the rage in his eyes.  Now he laid Steve’s shield on the end of the hospital bed, his hands slow to let it go.  They were slower still in letting Steve himself go as he clung tightly to his limp friend’s arm, forcefully rubbing up and down like the rough sensation could pierce through the pall of death.  It couldn’t.  Sam apologized.  Steve couldn’t hear him.  Sam begged his forgiveness.  Steve couldn’t answer.  Sam made promises, the same promises that had been made before.  Steve couldn’t be comforted by them.  Sam was, though.  Despite the silence, the rough, quiet sobs shaking his form, the pain of giving up, Sam gathered himself and offered up a shadow of his normal sunny smile.  And he held his head high, wiping away his tears as he walked out.

All of that moved so quickly, too quickly, and suddenly it was her turn.  Clint was gone, not there when she needed him ( _gone_ and she couldn’t even spare a second of worry for him now) so she was the only one left.  The others left in an unspoken agreement, affording her privacy.  _Privacy to say goodbye to her husband._   She was simultaneously grateful, horrified, and so angry.  Deep in her heart her efforts were frantic, clawing and scrambling and digging for that mask of apathy that had served her so well in the past.  It wasn’t to be found.  Steve had taken it away.  Steve had remade her, taught her to be who she wanted to be.  A wife and a mother.  A strong, independent woman who owed no allegiance to evil.  Steve had changed who Black Widow was, and now…

Now she had to stand on her own feet.  She had to.

And her own feet were walking, leading her to him.  She passed through the clean room and into the room beyond.  The sound of the machines was suddenly thunderous.  She’d been listening to it in one form or another for days.  And for days she’d been watching this disease, this nightmare from worlds away, destroy the man she loved.  Take his strength and turn it against him.  Reduce his body that so often entranced her with its power and beauty to a shriveled husk withering around a fading soul.  A freak accident on the battlefield had sent them down this path.  She looked at him now as he was lost to the world, _lost to her_ , nothing more than a bruised and tortured body in a bed.  She’d said it before, and it was true.  This reminded her of that moment a year ago when Clint had taken her to see him after they’d returned from Russia.  After he’d fought Alexei.  After she’d shot him.  How much they’d changed.  How far they’d come, only to end up back where they’d started.

She felt ill, dizzy with that awful fact, with how weak and small Steve looked now.  It seemed like he’d lost weight over the last few days, that his muscles weren’t as well defined.  Atrophy and damage.  His skin, so smooth under her roaming, caressing hands, was waxen and marred by internal bleeding.  Organ failure and poison in his blood.  His hair, golden splendor in the sun, silk through her fingers, was lusterless.  And his eyes were closed tightly, long lashes dark against white skin.  _His eyes._   The way they looked at her.  The way they _saw_ her.  Even when they’d been strangers, barely even partners and not even friends, he’d always seen her.  And he’d always looked at her with the same respect and admiration.  Even when she hadn’t deserved it.  Now… she had so many memories rush at her.  Memories of his eyes, infinitely blue like the sky on a clear summer day, watching her with nothing but love.  His eyes flashing when they’d argued.  His eyes twinkling when they’d teased each other.  His eyes deep with desire when they’d made love.  His eyes, a window to his soul, his soul that he’d given her over and over again.  _His eyes._ So many times had she lost herself in them.

Never again.

That made her dizzier, and she was walking across the room just to reach the chair so she didn’t collapse.  She went right to his side and took his hand.  And she could barely stop herself from saying all the things she wanted to say.  From _begging_ him to fight.  She had to breathe a few moments through her nose to keep calm.  This wasn’t real.  She wasn’t here, not here like this.  Not faced with this.  Throughout this whole nightmare, she hadn’t allowed herself to picture this.  It had been a distant thought, a hazy nightmare that couldn’t be real because there was no way it would happen.

It was happening.

And suddenly she was talking.  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.  She wasn’t brave enough to look at his face, her blurry vision focused on his knuckles.  On the glint of his wedding ring in the overly harsh and bright lights.  “I’m so sorry.  I’m sorry we couldn’t… that…”  She stopped herself, smiling a wet, rueful, little smile.  “Don’t, right?  You wouldn’t want me to blame myself.”

He didn’t answer, of course.  Bolder, she ran her fingers up his arm.  She was afraid to touch him now.  If she held him too tight, he’d shatter.  If she squeezed too hard, she could break him.  Even during their darkest moments, when he had left her, when she had shot him, she’d never been afraid like this.  And, as apologizing was, it wasn’t rational.  It wasn’t what he wanted.  She looked up at his face finally.  The tiny creases of discomfort that had been around his eyes were gone, as was the tension in his muscles.  He was limp, pliant.  Peaceful.  Beautiful still, despite everything.

The words came unbidden.  Her voice – _her heart_ – steadied itself.  “I know I’ve told you before, but I need to say it again.  I know you don’t like it when I do, but…”  _This is my last chance._ “Thank you.”  _Thank you for saving me.  Thank you for loving me.  Thank you for making me worthy of you.  Thank you._   She drew in a deep breath.  “I swore to myself I’d spend every day for the rest of my life honoring you for what you’ve given me, and I will.  I always will.  And I’m going to take care of the twins.  I’ll do whatever I need to.  I’ll… I’ll raise them right.  Captain America’s children.  I’ll raise them the way I know you would.  I’ll raise them to be like you.  As good as you are.”  She grunted a tiny laugh.  “They won’t have you as a shining example, but… I’ll do my best.  I know you have faith in me, so I’ll have faith in myself.  I can be who I want to be.  I own Black Widow, right?”  She couldn’t help the anger and the pain that surged from her control.  “Black Widow widowed four months into her marriage…  God, the irony.”  She almost lost it there, but she didn’t.  He didn’t care for self-deprecating nonsense, and she wouldn’t sully this moment with it.  She swept her fingers along his skin.  He was hot and cold unevenly, flushed with fever in some places, frozen in others.  She tried not to feel it.  “I’ll take care of them,” she said again.  “No one will ever hurt them.  I promise you.  You never need to worry, not about me or about them.  We’ll… we’ll be okay.”  _I know we will._   “You taught me how to be.”

One of the twins moved.  She smiled faintly, setting her other hand to her stomach.  She couldn’t speak for a moment, trying to overcome the swell of emotion inside her.  “I still need to figure out what to call them.”  Again, a sad laugh burst from her lips.  “All the times you wanted to talk about it and I changed the subject…”  _Now it’s too late._   They were both moving under her palm, gentle prods and kicks like they were trying to tell her something.  _It’ll be okay._ “I think… I think I’ll name him after – after you.  After…  Oh, God, Steve!”

She lost her control, standing before she could stop herself, holding him as close as she could, laying across his chest so that her cheek was on his heart.  She could feel it struggling beneath her, feel his lungs rattling with each failing breath.  And the tears started to come, hot and harsh.  So full of anger.  Unrepentant rage that she was losing him now, now when she wanted him the most.  Now when they were on the verge of everything he’d – _they’d_ – wanted.  “Steve, please.  _Please!_   Please don’t do this to me.  Don’t do this to us!  Listen to me!  You can’t die!”  Crying.  Praying.  Begging.  She squeezed her eyes shut, and the tears burned them, desperate to be loosed in a torrent.  “You can’t.  You can’t.  You’re stronger than this.  You’ve been through worse than this.  You fight.  Do you hear me, Rogers?  Fight!  Wake up.  Wake up!  We’re – we’re having babies!  Two of them!  And you promised me you’d be there!  You keep your promises!  You promised me!  _So you can’t die!”_ Her voice twisted, raw and soft with the frenzied words.  Her own heart pounded, and the emotions thundered over her.  That calm, safe place in the midst of the storm was far away now, and she let herself bleed.  _“Don’t leave me!”_

Nothing.

_No._

Natasha gasped and pulled back.  _No._   She wouldn’t fall apart.  She wouldn’t let what she felt consume her or tear her to pieces or push her back into something she wasn’t.  She could do this.  She had to be strong now.  _He knows I can._   She had to have faith.  She had to trust herself to love him.  And she owned herself, owned Black Widow, owned her heart and mind and body.  _I can do it._

She sniffled, wiping away the few tears that had escaped her eyes as she leaned up from his chest.  He was silent, unmoving.  Sleeping.  Sleeping forever.  And she would be okay.  That wasn’t an empty promise.  That was…

 _The gift he’d given her._   The strength to do this, to be who she wanted to be, _without him._

She smiled.  “It’s alright,” she swore, leaning over his face like she had before.  She cupped his jaw, leaning over the tubes and the sensors and everything keeping him alive, and kissed his forehead.  “It’s going to be alright, Steve.  I know it is.  But I have to let you go now.”  She smiled through her tears and kissed him again, tenderly stroking the hair from his brow.  “I can be who I want.  And I’m your teammate and your partner.  I’ll still be that, no matter what.  I’ll always be your friend.  I’m the mother of your children.  I’m your wife.  And I’ll be yours, now and forever.”  She lifted his limp hand to her face, pushing his palm to her cheek with trembling fingers.  “ _Ya tvoya_.”  She held it to her heart, to the twins, and finally to her lips, kissing it tenderly.  “ _Ya tvoya_.”

Somehow she leaned back.  Somehow she set his hand on the bed.  Somehow… somehow she walked away.

The world had finally collapsed.  She was there, down in the emptiness.  Everything drifted in and out of focus.  She was moving.  _Keep moving_.  She was leaving him.  _Go.  It’s alright._   She was out of the room, out in the infirmary, out in the hallway.  _It’s okay now.  It’s okay._   She needed to find Bruce and tell him she was ready.  It was time.

Out in the corridor beyond the quarantine room, the Avengers were gathered.  And when she came closer, the soft conversation they’d been having all but stopped, and they each looked at her.  Maria and Betty.  Tony and Sam.  Bruce and Thor.  Something wasn’t right.  Something in the air, in the way they looked at her, in the moment.  Sam came closer, talking though she couldn’t hear what he was saying.  Thor gently took her arm and steadied her.  Everything seemed unnaturally slow, and she didn’t understand.  What was happening?  What…

In the middle of the group, there was someone else.  She couldn’t quite see who until the others stepped aside.  Dark skin.  A dark eye appraising her _._   A strong, confident stature.  A wise, powerful aura.  _Fury._   And with him…

_Oh, God…_

It was Bucky.  He was filthy and unshaven.  He was afraid and lost.  He was broken and so terribly uncertain.  But when he met her gaze, his tense expression softened, and he nodded.

Now her world exploded outward, filling with light and sound and purpose.  Hope and faith.  _Life._   And finally she let herself cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ya tvoya._ – I'm yours.


	16. Chapter 16

Against all odds, Fury had brought back Bucky Barnes.

Against all odds, the Winter Soldier was now sitting in a chair in one of the infirmary rooms of Stark Tower with a needle in his arm and his blood flowing into a collection bag.

Therefore, against all odds, there was a chance Steve Rogers would live.

Tony was having a hard time accepting any of it, let alone getting over it.  He stood in the corridor outside the room, watching from the shadows.  Barnes was tense, that much was painfully obvious.  He’d washed (at least he still knew how to do that), freshly showered and dressed in new clothes they’d taken from Steve’s closet.  Jeans and a heather gray shirt and a pair of Steve’s sneakers.  He hadn’t shaved, though, and his hair was damp around his face in drying tufts and tangles.  And he looked like a strange combination of dangerous and pathetic.  It was a weird juxtaposition, and Tony didn’t like how it made him feel, this even stranger combination of terror, fury, and pity.  He hadn’t seen Barnes since Steve had left him go in Times Square (obviously), but in the short span of months between now and then, he was… different.  Not changed, exactly, but he exuded a _strange combination_ of fragility and recovery.  Tony realized why that was.  This man in front of him…  He was a strange combination of Bucky Barnes and the Winter Soldier.

That made it so much harder to hate him.

Tony hadn’t come here to do that.  Frankly, after the last few days, he didn’t need any more pent-up emotions tearing him down inside.  He didn’t need more anger, more grief, more frustration.  As he stood there, though, glaring from the shadows in the hallway like some sort of silent menace, he couldn’t help himself.  He looked back on it now, on the moment where he’d abided by Steve’s wishes and let Barnes go.  Why the hell had he done that?  This whole fucking thing would have been so much simpler if Barnes had been where he _belonged._ In a box someplace.  A psych ward or prison.  Both of those would have suited Tony just fine.  They could’ve gone there, doped the man to the gills on tranquilizers, stuck a needle in without any trouble, and this nightmare would have been over _days ago._   He wouldn’t have had to watch Steve suffer through the disease caused by his own negligence, wouldn’t have had to see him terrified as they’d locked him in the cryostasis capsule, wouldn’t have had to fight to keep him alive when his heart and lungs had stopped.  Wouldn’t have had to watch Natasha beg her husband to live.  Wouldn’t have had to beg himself in the quiet places of his mind.  _Hindsight._   He wanted to hit himself for such a thought.  Fuck hindsight.

Barnes hadn’t said a word since Fury had arrived with him in tow.  He’d been absolutely silent, his eyes dark and malignant one moment but open and frightened the next.  The whole thing was damn disturbing, how _little_ he seemed to trust them or care about Rogers.  Yet he was here, wasn’t he?  On some level he had to care, even if he’d briefly looked in on Steve’s dying body without a hint of recognition, let alone emotion, in his eyes.  Tony stared at him now, watching as Betty Ross (who’d been massively rejuvenated with the chance to put the procedures she’d developed to create an antiserum to good use on the appropriate samples) checked that the needle was secure in Barnes’ forearm and that the tubes weren’t constricted at all so that the flow was good.  He couldn’t read Barnes’ expression, this stony, unfailing emptiness.  A frown that seemed more from a _lack_ of emotion, like a default setting, the status quo of his facial expressions.  And those damn blank eyes.  He was sitting there like a statue, not even fidgeting as they took bag after bag of blood, not answering as Betty softly asked him if he was okay.  Not drinking the juice she’d brought or eating the food with it (which he looked like he desperately needed.  Not that Tony cared, because _he didn’t care_ , but the guy was thinner than when he’d seen him before and he seemed… _destroyed_ ).  He wasn’t even blinking that Tony could see.  _How the hell can he be like this?  How the hell can he not care?_ The soulless gaze…  _That_ was how he’d looked at Steve Rogers, his supposed best friend, as he’d lain on death’s doorstep.  Like he didn’t know him.  Maybe he didn’t.

_He’s here, isn’t he?_

Again, Tony just couldn’t make sense of any of it.

The dimmed lights of the room glinted off Barnes’ metal arm where he clenched the side of the cushioned chair.  Tony had seen it before, of course.  Up close and personal in battle.  In the files that had been leaked from SHIELD.  There had been specs and plans.  Notes from the HYDRA scientists back in the fifties who’d designed it, from the techs who’d serviced it over the years for HYDRA, the Red Room, and SHIELD alike.  It needed maintenance.  He could tell from the way the plates weren’t quite working in perfectly synchrony, from the way there was just the slightest bit of an unnatural twitch to his motions.  To a normal person’s eye, it wasn’t noticeable.  But Tony was an engineer so he saw it immediately.  And his mind had gone to work without his approval, immediately wondering what was wrong with it.  He skirted his eyes along the plates that ran down the bicep area.  They bent at the elbow before curling around the forearm and ending in the silver fingers that were clutching the chair’s arm.  Even as covered in dirt and aged grime as it was, it was gleaming and amazing.  He couldn’t deny that he was curious.  That pissed him off even more, that he _was_ interested, that even though he was repulsed by Barnes’ mere presence in his home, he wanted to know more about his arm.  How it worked.  The mechanics of it.  Of what materials it had been constructed.  It was far beyond any sort of cybernetic prosthetic of which he knew.  The technology was remarkable, the strength and power the limb possessed, the way it had to interface with Barnes’ nervous system to achieve such fine motor control.  He couldn’t deny how much he wanted to get his own hands in there, exploring and tinkering and taking it apart.  It was a marvel.  It was also a deadly weapon.  He shuddered to think about how much blood had probably coated those metal fingers and stained that gleaming plating.  Or whose.

He wasn’t a slave to science or his own ambitions.  He certainly wasn’t one to his curiosities.  And he didn’t care.  He didn’t want to know anything more about this man, not about his arm or who he had been before HYDRA had taken him or what he’d done in their service or how to rehabilitate him now.  Barnes wasn’t a problem he was going to fix.

“How’s it going?”

Tony turned to see Fury and Sam coming closer.  Fury was unreadable as always (and for some reason it raised Tony’s hackles even more that he’d showed up just in time to save them.  _Again_ ).  But he swallowed down a sharp response.  He wasn’t going to let his emotions get the better of him again.  “It’s going.  Banner start the infusion?”

Sam nodded.  “About ten minutes ago.  Thor’s helping him.”

“Romanoff?”

“She’s hanging in there,” Sam replied sadly.  He, too, looked completely haggard, whittled down to almost nothing but the will to see Steve saved no matter what.  His eyes were dark and hollowed out.  He wasn’t doing anything to hide his limp.  He was as worn and battered as Tony felt.  “She won’t leave Steve, but I think she’s okay.  She’s come this far.”

Tony couldn’t argue with that.  The Natasha of a few days ago who’d been hormonal, vitriolic, and vicious seemed a distant memory.  The Natasha who was silently terrified of motherhood, who was resentful of the changes coming to her, who was unsure and reeling and holding tight to Steve for strength and support…  That Natasha seemed to be gone completely.  A new woman, forged by the fire of this hell, had taken her place.  And this new woman was radiant, powerful.  Calm, not with the sort of deadly threat as she’d had before, but compassionate and peaceful.  Certain of what she needed to do.  Emotional fortitude rather than _absence_ of emotion.  Tony had always gotten the impression before that Natasha was a moving target, masks upon masks, so many lies and layers piled atop each other that there was no way to see through them to the truth of who or what she was.  That was what Black Widow was meant to be.  A liar.  A killer.  A seductress and a master manipulator.  Now even more so than during SHIELD’s collapse or the incident with Omega Red or any moment since then, not even during Steve and Natasha’s wedding, he thought he was seeing her.  _Really_ seeing her.  Not who she had been, burdened by the sins of her past.  Not who she’d been made to be.  This was _who she was becoming._   Maybe it was trite, but this was Captain America’s wife in truth, not just in title.  And it wasn’t at all what he’d expected, this serene sense of purpose she possessed now, this strength that radiated beyond her to Steve, to _all_ of them really.  Whatever she’d said to Bruce had clearly comforted him somehow because the other man seemed calmer himself, more at peace than Tony had seen him recently.  What she’d done for him…  Well, he knew he should be mortified (and a part of him was embarrassed) that he’d completely lost it in front of her, but mostly he was okay with it.  She had every reason to despise him for what had happened, and she didn’t.  That was more forgiveness and understanding than he’d previously thought her capable of giving anyone, and that was more than he thought he deserved.

She’d carried them all.  Her faith.  Her strength and determination.  Her belief in Steve.  Her love for Steve and her love for her children.  _Black Widow’s love._   Against all odds, _she’d_ led them here.  Tony couldn’t quite wrap his mind around that, either.

And she’d held back the Hulk.  That was pretty damn amazing.  _A warrior woman._   In some ways, she was one now even more than before.

Inside the room, Betty said something more to Bucky that they couldn’t hear as she changed out the collection bag.  Whatever it was she told him, he didn’t answer.  She seemed afraid, or at the very least bothered, but she wasn’t as intimated as someone could be when dealing with a violent, possibly unhinged ex-HYDRA assassin.  She was used to dealing with monsters, Tony supposed.  She spoke louder this time, telling Barnes they needed one more bag of blood.  He still didn’t respond, staring into the shadows like he was trying to think or trying to remember.  Trying to reconcile something perhaps, what he thought he knew and what actually was.  A tiny bit of a flinch crossed his face, but otherwise he held completely still.  Betty smiled sadly, chancing a hand on his shoulder (holy hell she was bold) before turning away with the bag of blood in her gloved hands.  She paused at the group of men out in the hallway.  “It’s going well,” she said.  She wasn’t specific as to what, but Barnes was still sitting in the chair like he had been for the last hour, letting them suck his blood out like they were a bunch of vampires, and Steve was still alive (just barely, but alive was alive).

“How much longer until we know it’s working?” Fury asked.

“We’re giving Captain Rogers three infusions.  Since this antiserum is far more compatible with the original serum, I suspect we will see something soon.  An hour maybe.”

The idea that this could be over in an hour was overwhelming.  Tony looked away from Betty back to Barnes.  “Maybe you should do more,” Sam said.  He was saying exactly what Tony was thinking.  After all of this, he didn’t want anything left to chance.  None of them did.  “What if it’s not enough?”

Betty frowned apologetically.  “Unfortunately we’ve taken almost a liter and a half of blood.  That’s a lot.  Any more could be dangerous for him, enhanced or no.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Tony groused.  “Bleed him dry.”  _He deserves it._

The venom in his voice surprised even him.  Betty’s face loosened in a hint of alarm; she didn’t need to know the whole story to understand.  However, before she could say anything (or Tony could even think to amend his consideration of the man who was right now draining his blood into a bag to save Captain America), Fury coolly announced, “I’m sure what you can do will be sufficient.”  He turned his gaze on him (God, Tony _hated_ when the bastard glared at him like this, all cool disapproval and condescension).  “Romanoff’s not the only one who’s a fighter.  Cap’ll make it.”

Tony knew now more than ever just how true that was, too.  As much as it hurt, he had to admit that Steve was stronger than anyone.  On the tail of that came the fact he had to face: Steve was stronger than him.  If that alien had clawed him, gotten through the suit…  If it had hit anyone else except for maybe Thor, this would have been over almost immediately, and one of them would be dead.  That made it worse, so he decided not to think about it now.  He had enough to deal with.

Like the Winter Soldier in his home.

Betty gave a little nod, uncomfortable with the tension in the air.  “I’ll, um…  Let me get this to Bruce so we can make sure we have what we need.”

“Thanks, Doctor Ross,” Fury said evenly, and she walked away.

The three of them stood in silence for a bit.  Each of them was watching Barnes again like there was nothing else to watch.  Maybe it was because he was a threat.  Maybe it was because he was an unknown, unpredictable, damaged and broken and so very alone.  Maybe it was just because none of them could quite fathom that he was actually here, like glancing away even more a moment would turn this into a lie.  He would vanish into thin air, an apparition or a phantom.  A ghost.  The past and the present, mashed together into a nightmare that should never have existed.

“How did you catch him?” Sam eventually asked.  His voice was so loud in the quiet that Tony jerked free of the haze of his exhausted thoughts.  He turned to face the other man and found he had his arms folded across his chest and set his weight on his good leg.  He looked one second away from complete collapse.  But he kept soldiering on.  “I mean, he ran.  And he didn’t give a damn, not about Steve or anything.  How did you–”

“He ran, sure,” Fury said, appraising Barnes in the shadows.  “But everyone who runs eventually needs to stop.  And he stopped right outside the Expo.  He just gave up.  He was lost up in himself again.”  His eye narrowed.  “He kept saying something about the end of the line.”

Sam’s expression slackened with surprise.  He turned his head sharply to Fury.  “He did?”

Fury nodded.  “Yeah.”

“And that convinced him?”

“It stopped him,” Fury said.  Tony thought about that a moment, about the lengths to which Fury might have gone to get Barnes back here.  No matter what he was now, not a spy or the director of anyone or anything, he was still who he was, and who he was was pragmatic, calculating, and occasionally ruthless.  It hadn’t crossed his mind, the how of all of it, and now that it did, Tony felt uneasy.  No one could deny that Barnes wasn’t exactly in his right mind and was perhaps not capable of making his own decisions.  Fury could have coerced him, manipulated him, forced him by some other means, played to his weaknesses or preyed on his fears of HYDRA or being captured again…  _Would he do that?  Did he do that?_

Fury’s hand slipped into his leather long coat, and he pulled out his phone.  “This was what convinced him.”  On the screen was one of the images that had so wildly circulated the internet.  Natasha reaching for Steve’s face, her own twisted in terror, her weddings rings and the fact that she was extremely pregnant stomach utterly undeniable.  Tony stared at that, not making sense of it for a moment.  Fury tipped his head ruefully.  “The past always demands its due, but sometimes so does the future.”

Sam’s eyes widened once that sank in.  “A way to redemption.  Damn, I didn’t even think of that.  I kept trying to appeal to his past, when I should have been…  I _knew_ what he wanted, and I didn’t even realize that was the way to reach him.”  Tony regarded him quizzically, interested despite his dislike of the topic (and all his efforts to seem like he didn’t care).  “He kept saying it was too late to make anything right.  Damage was already done.  But the twins…  That’s something that’s new and pure.  Something he could do right by.”

That made a strange sort of sense.  Tony’s eyes glazed with thought.  “A part of Steve he could save.  That he hasn’t hurt.” 

“Exactly.”  Sam shook his head.  “How the hell did I not see that?”

“Don’t beat yourself up too hard, Wilson,” Fury advised.  “You said it yourself.  You’re a soldier, not a spy.”  His voice was light and _(hell has definitely frozen over)_ definitely teasing.  Then his gaze settled on Barnes again, deep but unreadable.  Pleased, maybe.  Relieved.  Tony had never much liked Fury, never cared for his domineering attitude and opinions.  He’d always felt used and manipulated in the other man’s presence.  Everything about him had rubbed Tony wrong since they’d met, the way he kept his hand so close to his chest, and no one would ever convince him that Fury had been entirely honest throughout the forming of the Avengers and even the fall of SHIELD.  However, here and now, it was pretty undeniable that that man cared.  He cared deeply.  “I was right.”  His tone was satisfied but not arrogant.  “What he was after did matter.  Gentlemen.”  The ex-SHIELD Director gave the other two men a final appraising look before walking away.

Tony watched Fury leave, confused.  He stepped closer to Sam.  “What was he after?  You said redemption.”

It clearly wasn’t as simple as that if the wince on Sam’s face was any indication.  Sam was a good guy, and, like Rogers, he was shit at lying.  And, like Rogers, he was predictable as all get-out.  He obviously didn’t want to answer, but he did.  “Tony, I…”  He lowered his voice even further, seeming more and more resigned and unhappy.  Tony was hardly in the mood to deal with someone else’s guilt or reluctance or whatever.  “If I was in your place, I’d want to know.”

It sounded like he was saying that to himself, but Tony responded anyway.  Irately, too.  “Know what?”

Sam frowned.  “Barnes…  He was looking into your parents’ deaths.”

That had been in the back of his mind (well, okay maybe not the _back_ really, but definitely hovering around his head like an annoying mosquito buzzing in his ear).  Ever since Barnes had inexplicably become involved in this situation, _this_ had been there, lurking like a shadow.  That there’d been the possibility of facing his parents’ killer.  He’d shoved that aside for Steve’s sake, and as the situation had become more and more desperate, he’d pretty much forgotten about it.  Now, not only was Barnes here, but he’d been investigating…  “What?”

Sam sighed, like he’d been hoping he could just make that announcement and it would be enough.  “He was hunting down information about it, trying to…  I don’t know exactly.  Make sense of things, things that he’s remembering.”

“Not sure I give a damn,” Tony said, shocked and annoyed (mostly annoyed) that Sam was telling him this.  Sam stared at him.  “What, am I supposed to feel bad for him?  Am I supposed to be glad or sad or impressed that he’s recovering?”

“No,” Sam assured, “I don’t think you need to be any of that.”

“Then what he was doing doesn’t matter.  He’s fucking lucky I don’t call the Feds on his sorry ass and have them haul him off to a padded room somewhere far, far away.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Huh?”

Sam’s expression softened, and he lowered his voice somehow further, like he was afraid Barnes might hear him.  “You could, but you haven’t.  And I’m grateful, not so much for his sake but for Steve’s.  And for the sanctity of my word, I guess, since I promised him it would be safe for him here if he came back.”

“Shouldn’t have made that promise,” Tony grumbled.

Sam gave him a pointed look that said _you would have done the same._   And faced with doing whatever was necessary to get Barnes back here to save Steve’s life, he very well might have.  The difference was, though, he wouldn’t feel obligated to keep it.  “He’s here,” Sam reminded.

“His mistake.”

“So you’re going to do it then,” Sam surmised.  “After he’s done.  After we have what we need.”

“It” wasn’t well-defined.  “It” had a wide variety of interpretations as well.  Kill the Winter Soldier.  Get revenge.  Have the rest of the team detain him (Tony didn’t care who Barnes was – he wasn’t strong enough to fight Thor).  They could arrest him, at least.  Make him answer for his crimes.  He hadn’t thought about it before, that bringing Barnes here would be bringing Barnes _here_ , into his home and their stronghold in a sense.  Suddenly he was flush with hot anger and grief, the addition of so much stress from the last few days notwithstanding.  He’d let Steve make the call before.  Now he had a chance to handle this the way _he_ wanted.  For better or worse, Steve wasn’t capable of doing anything to stop him.  Steve was unconscious, hanging on by a hope and a prayer.  That was a sad reminder of how completely inappropriate this line of thought was (and probably this conversation, for that matter), but he couldn’t stop himself.  “Maybe.  He deserves it.”

Sam didn’t argue.  At least, not entirely.  “I don’t know what he deserves.”  His eyes glazed with doubt.  “I saw him, Stark.  He’s… messed up.”

“I’ll ask you again, Wilson.  Is that supposed to make me feel sorry for him?”

“No.  This is a screwed up situation.”  _That doesn’t really cover it._   The man who’d murdered his parents, who’d sent their car off an icy backroad out on Long Island, who’d orphaned him and left him bereft of guidance and support, who’d taken his father before he could understand him and make amends with him…  That man was sitting in that chair with that goddamn _blank_ expression on his face like he didn’t feel anything or even _realize_ where he was.  Even with everything that had happened, now that they were at this point, was he just supposed to turn a blind eye?  Let it go?  Let _him_ go again?

“But he’s here,” Sam finally repeated, pulling Tony from his increasingly bitter, dark thoughts.  “That counts for something.  And that’s all I’m saying.”  Tony turned and caught Sam’s nod.  The silence now was still tense, but somehow what Sam said had tempered it slightly.  He offered up a feeble grin.  “I’m gonna get something to eat and go sit with Natasha.”

“Have at it.”  Sam started to limp away, and Tony felt wrong, like a truly vicious scumbag.  He knew he didn’t have a reason to, but he did.  Damn Rogers and all his silent, gentle efforts to turn them all into a real team.  “Hey, Sam?”  The other man stopped at the other end of the hallway and turned.  “You did really good.”  Tony rolled his eyes at himself a little.  “Even if you didn’t use my approach.”

Sam chuckled good-naturedly.  “Your approach sucked,” he said, and Tony smiled.  “But you did good, too.  You kept Steve alive.”

“Barely.”

“Alive’s what counts.  He’s going to be okay now.”  Tony supposed that was true, even if they didn’t know it for sure just yet.  _Steve’s going to be okay_.  And it did make him feel better, that he’d had a hand in it.  Good enough, at least, to raise his eyebrows and nod in acquiescence.  “You okay then?”  Sam’s tone was difficult to decipher.  There was honest concern there, of course.  Concern for him and how he was taking this.  Weariness.  And relief that this could be ending with Steve miraculously surviving something that by all rights should have killed him days ago.  But there was more, too.  He was checking to make sure Tony was _okay,_ with it enough not to start anything that would jeopardize himself, Barnes, or their ability to get what they needed from him.  It wasn’t that Sam didn’t trust him.  With how worn thin everything was and the fucked up circumstances of this moment, it was more like a friendly reminder _not_ to do anything stupid.  Then Wilson was limping the rest of the way down the hall the same way Fury and Betty had gone.

Tony stood there.  He knew he tended to be impulsive, often flying by the seat of his pants both literally and figuratively, but as he stared at Barnes’ shadowy figure, he found himself hesitant.  All that _power_ he’d felt a moment before, the ability to dictate how this situation ended, the ability to get vengeance or justice or _something_ out of twenty-five years of grief and disquiet over the deaths of his parents…  It abruptly made him feel sick to his stomach (even sicker than he’d felt before).  He couldn’t deny that it felt good in a dark way, too, to glare at Barnes, to think he had him at his mercy (his and his alone).  So before he could think better of it, he was stepping away from the safety of the hallway and boldly walking into the room.

Barnes didn’t look up at his entrance.  He was yet stiff and completely unmoving, staring at a spot on the wall while the blood dripped red and hot out of his arm and into the bag connected to the tubing.  Tony stared at that for a second, but it only made him feel sicker and more uncertain.  There was a war inside him, one between doubt, anger, grief, and fear, and he didn’t like feeling this way.  He couldn’t ( _wouldn’t_ ) stop himself.  He walked until he was standing directly in Barnes’ line of sight.  He clenched every muscle in his body; if Barnes attacked, he could have Iron Man to him in less than fifteen seconds, and JARVIS would surely alert the others.  Something told him the Winter Soldier could kill him before then, though.  Barnes was unarmed, but the metal fist alone could punch through concrete and steel.  So he was scared.  But he was angrier.  “You know who I am?”

Barnes continued to stare at the same point, even though that point was somewhere on Tony’s stomach now.  He didn’t answer, of course.  Tony had figured he wouldn’t, but for some reason he was still disappointed.  His brain started running with that, of course.  Was he not answering because he couldn’t?  Or because he wouldn’t?  Was he scared of them or reveling in the fact that they were scared of him?  Did he feel _anything_ at all, or was he a blank slate, permanently wiped clean?  Was there a biological or a psychological explanation for it?  Manipulating a prisoner was one thing; HYDRA had brainwashed this guy for seventy years.  Reprogramming a mind implied there was science and logic behind it, and Tony wondered at that, at what had degraded (which led to thoughts about why and how and…  _What the fuck.  Stop it_ ).  This wasn’t about fixing Barnes, and he _didn’t fucking care._   “You know where you are?”

Again, not a sound or a twitch.  That only ratcheted up his frustration and anger.  “I hope you at least know why you’re here.”  _Nothing._   Damaged son of a bitch.  Didn’t he know or care at all what had happened to Steve?  Why did that matter?  What did any of this matter now?  Tony’s brain felt like it was all over the place, firing randomly it was so fatigued and riddled with pain.  He forced himself to focus.  “Well, allow me to introduce myself then.  I’m Tony Stark.”  He gave that a moment to sink in, figuring the name would elicit some sort of response.  This was Rogers’ best friend, a Howling Commando.  They’d worked closely with his father during the war, close enough that Howard had mentioned Barnes once or twice when he’d told a young Tony stories about Captain America and his men.  But Barnes didn’t so much as blink.  Tony wanted to hit him.  “ _Stark._   That mean anything to you?”

Finally, _finally_ , Barnes shifted his gaze from that blank, deadened stare.  His eyes went to Tony’s face, slowly, purposefully, and methodically.  Honestly, now that Barnes was actually looking at him, Tony didn’t feel one bit better.  The intensity of it was unnerving until Barnes squinted like he was trying to reconcile what he was seeing with something he knew couldn’t be real.  Just like when Steve had been out of his mind with delirium and had mistaken him for his father, his stomach twisted up into an uncomfortable knot.  He didn’t let it stop him.  “Yeah, now you get it.  Stark.  Howard Stark’s son.  Maria Stark’s son.  I know you know who they were.”  Barnes still didn’t say anything.  Rage left Tony shaking, and suddenly it was all pouring out.  “You know who they were.  You _murdered_ them, you sick bastard.  I know you know that.  Wilson says you were out doing ‘research’ about it.  Why?  What were you hoping to find?  That you didn’t do it?  That all this horrible shit you’re remembering isn’t real?”

Barnes looked away again, but he cringed.  It was hardly anything, a tiny, reflexive jerk, but Tony saw it and he honed in on it and went for the kill.  “News flash.  All this horrible shit you’re remembering _is_ real.  One hundred percent, undeniably, _absolutely real._ ”  Again, another minute flinch.  Contrary to popular opinion, there was a part of Tony that knew he was barreling headfirst into disaster.  He did have some sense of self-preservation.  But, as usual, it wasn’t enough to stop him once he got going.  “Well, what did you find?  Anything interesting?  Because I have a few questions myself.”  He tried not to feel his heart pounding or his eyes burning.  “How’d you do it, huh?”  He left that hanging a moment, let it _hurt._   “How’d you get my dad drunk?  Old Howard liked booze, don’t get me wrong, but he wasn’t stupid.  And he was a cold and calculating bastard, but he loved my mother, so there’s no way he would have ever gotten behind the wheel if he wasn’t capable of driving.”  Tony crossed his arms over his chest.  “So that means you drugged him, you or someone HYDRA had planted at the restaurant.  Probably in his brandy after dinner.  He always had brandy.  It was a sure thing, like goddamn clockwork, and you spiked it.  Had to be some drug with a fuse so it wouldn’t look to the staff or the press or my mom like he was intoxicated when he left.  Then all you had to do was follow him.  Make sure the car went off the road, which it would because it was icy and dark and not the way they normally went.  HYDRA’s doing again, probably.  Funny how all this shit seems a lot less coincidental now.  All the convenient ingredients coming together to make a perfect crash caused by DUI.  And after that, all that was left was making sure.  That sound about right?”  Tony’s voice trembled with barely restrained venom.  “Did I miss any of the details?”

Barnes looked at him again, and – _honest to God_ – there were tears in his eyes.  Tony couldn’t contain his rage anymore.  “No, no.  You don’t get to cry about this.  You feel bad?  Who _the fuck_ are you to feel bad?  I buried my parents when I was twenty-one years old.  I never got to say goodbye.  I never got a chance to kiss my mother again or ask my father any of the things I wanted to ask him.  I never–”  His voice broke.  He _never_ talked about this, not even with Pepper.  And here he was, baring his grief that he’d long thought was spent to his parents’ murderer.  That only made him angrier.  “You’re here in my home.  You’re here, after everything you’ve done.  I should fucking kill you.  It’s only because we need your blood to save Steve’s life that I’m not.”  Pain crossed Barnes’ face.  “Steve, right?  You remember him?  Your supposed best friend?  You tortured him so bad he almost bled out on my dining room table.  You shot him.  You shot Natasha.  You remember that?  Huh?  _Do you?_ You’re a fucking monster, and you’ll be lucky if I let you walk out of here!”

Barnes said nothing to that threat, did nothing.  Tony lost whatever remained of his control.  “How could you do that?  And how dare you look into my parents’ deaths?  _How dare you?_   You had no right!”  Barnes closed his eyes.  Tony wanted to scream.  He wanted to walk away and finish this at the same time.  He wanted this man _gone._   And he wanted not to feel like this.  It shouldn’t have mattered this much.  It was twenty-five years ago and Barnes had been forced to do it.  He was as much a victim in all of this as any of them.  It shouldn’t have mattered.

But it did.  “Did you at least find your answers?  Did you find what you were looking for?  Huh?  Did you find _anything?_ ”

All the sudden Barnes was moving.  He was standing, pulling the needle from his arm.  Tony stumbled back, all of his rage freezing instantly into fear.  He should never have pushed.  He should never have done this.  _Never never never–_

But Barnes didn’t attack.  Blood ran from the hole in his arm, splattering on the floor next to the nearly full collection bag.  He stared at Tony, breathing slowly and deeply, and Tony stared back.  A tense eternity of quiet slipped away, one drip of red, one heartbeat, at a time.  Eventually Barnes reached with his metal hand into the pocket of his pants.  He pulled out something, something shiny that Tony couldn’t quite see.  He looked down on it, swallowed thickly, eyes hooded and glazed with a storm of things Tony couldn’t understand.  He handed the item to Tony, and slowly, hesitantly, Tony took it.  “I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that was nothing but sincere.  He turned and walked away, and Tony let him leave.

Shocked beyond thought, he stood still for what felt like an unnaturally long time.  Then he looked down into his hands.  It was a pocket watch.  Not just any pocket watch, he realized.  _His father’s pocket watch._   A thousand memories prodded at him.  The watch on his father’s desk.  The watch in his father’s hands.  His father’s thick fingers, warm and loving as he ran them through Tony’s hair once.  He swept his thumb over the silver cover, swallowing the tight misery in his throat, and opened the latch.  The top popped up.  He remembered this.  The words there.  _“To protect the world.”_ And the names.  _Edward Stark.  Howard Stark._   And…  _Anthony Stark._

That… that hadn’t been there the last time he’d seen this.  The last time he’d seen it, it had been his grandfather’s name (a poor inventor from Italy) and his father’s name.  His father, the son of two immigrants who’d worked his way to greatness.  Howard had obviously added Tony’s name and meant to give it to him.  _Meant to._   Maybe when he took over the company.  He could almost picture it, how that would have changed his life.  _“My greatest creation.”_ Something that had never come to pass.  Somehow during all of this, Barnes had found it.  Here he was, trying to make things right.  That was probably impossible, but… _he was here._

Tony curled his hand tightly around the watch and closed his eyes.  The next thing he knew he was sinking down wearily into Barnes’ chair.  It was still warm.  So was the watch in his hand.  And, oddly enough, so was he.

* * *

The antiserum was working.

_It was working._

Bruce had made the announcement about thirty minutes after giving Steve the first infusion.  They’d moved Steve out of quarantine and back to the intensive care room in the infirmary.  Bruce had come back to check on his patient only to find the subtle first signs of improvement.  They were hardly noticeable, and he’d been quick to remind Natasha and Thor (who’d both been watching with unbridled hope in their eyes) that Steve’s slightly better pulse and respiration rates could be just be ordinary fluctuations.  The blood test would be more indicative.  So he’d taken blood and retreated to the lab with Betty with an undeniable jolt of excitement to his steps.  And he’d come back not more than ten minutes later to proclaim the infection was _better._   The number of infected immune cells in Steve’s blood was significantly reduced.  _It was working._

Thor had smiled and practically cheered, grasping Natasha and gathering her into a joyous hug.  And Natasha had laughed, letting herself be swooped around by Thor despite how pregnant she was.  She’d almost cried, too.  Almost.  She’d stopped herself.  She was done crying now.  She was sick of it, sick of the sobs itching in her throat and the stinging ache of her eyes.  Besides, there was no more reason to.  _Steve’s going to be okay._

Now it was waiting again.  Thor had left for a moment, and Sam had returned with a couple of Styrofoam boxes filled with sandwiches.  Natasha frowned at the food, uncertain she could stand to eat it with her stomach twisted up in anticipation and her heart fluttering in excitement.  “Come on,” Sam chided, setting the sandwich right in front of her.  He also handed her a bottle of water.  “Babies need it as much as you do.”

She was tempted to glare at him, but it was too much effort, even to do it in jest.  Instead she unscrewed the top of the bottle and sucked down half of it in nearly two huge gulps.  Any pretense of not being famished vanished with one bite of the sandwich.  For the first time in _days_ , she tasted something.  Everything had been _nothing_ in her mouth until now, chewed and swallowed simply because eating was necessary.  Now…  She let herself have a moment to really enjoy the simplicity of bread and turkey and tomato…  “What?” she said when she realized Sam was watching her.

“Nothing,” Sam said with half a smile on his face.  “Just… happy to see you happy.”

“He’s not out of the woods yet,” Natasha reminded softly, lowering her sandwich to glance at Steve who was still soundly unconscious.  It was difficult to look at him like this, even now.  And it was crazy that they were here, _eating_ while he lingered still in a place between life and death.  Enjoying something this mundane seemed wrong given that, but Sam was right.  _Steve’s going to be okay._

Thanks to Sam.  Now she was the one watching him.  He was devouring his own sandwich like it was going out of style.  He looked haggard, tired, but comfortable.  Confident that everything was fine.  Bruised and worn but happy himself.  “Thanks,” she finally said when the moment of silence went on too long.

Sam turned to her, his goatee framing his grin.  He lifted his half eaten sub.  “For the sandwich?” he quipped.

Despite all they’d been through together, the fall of SHIELD and the incident with Omega Red and every scrape and battle the Avengers had fought since then, she’d never taken a moment to do this.  To thank him for letting Steve and her crash into his life.  For hiding them, protecting them, fighting a fight he had no reason to fight.  For being Steve’s friend when Steve had so desperately needed one.  And now… going to bring back Barnes, no matter how dangerous it had been.  Being here for her and for Steve.  “Thank you for saving his life.  If he’s going to be okay, it’s because of you.”

Sam actually looked sheepish.  “And Stark.  And Thor.  And Doctor Ross and Doctor Banner.  And you.”  He cocked an eyebrow.  “Let’s not forget you.”

She wasn’t going to be deterred by him trying to shift the recognition to someone else.  “Yeah, we all played a part, but…  It’s not just going after Barnes.  It’s…  You’ve stood by him no matter what, even when I didn’t, and that means a lot.  Not just to him, but to me.”

Sam’s eyes filled with surprise.  Just as she’d never taken a moment to properly thank him for all he’d done, sadly she had to admit that she still didn’t know him that well, at least not like Steve knew him.  He was for all intents and purposes Steve’s best friend, and she was barely more than his acquaintance in some ways.  Maybe it was time for that to change.  She smiled, and so did he, truly touched.  “Well, I accept payment in the form of your firstborn son,” he finally managed.  His grin turned sly.  “You can name him after me.”

Natasha laughed.  It felt good to do that.  Even before when she’d had a moment of relief with Tony and Pepper, it hadn’t been like this.  This was _actual_ joy, not just laughing for the sake of hiding how terrified she was.  “I could.  We don’t have any names picked out.”

“I know.  Steve told me.”  Sam went back to his sandwich.  “He said he wanted you to name them since you’re doing all the work.”

For some reason, that surprised her.  Maybe it wouldn’t have if she’d actually let Steve talk about this before instead of brushing him aside or changing the subject.  “He did?”

“Yeah.  So I figured the boy’s name would probably be taken.”  That gave her pause.  He must have found the way she was looking at him troubling (well, in truth, she was a little troubled) because he went on.  “Figured you’d be naming him after Clint.”  Another small, facetious smile graced Sam’s face.  “Though if you ask me, Samuel is a million times better than Clinton.”  He took another bite of his sandwich.  “Just saying.”

 _“No, don’t do that.  I hate my name.”_   Clint’s voice from that night down in the gym sounded so clear in her head.  Suddenly it was all she could do not to let tears flood her eyes again.  It was hormones – it had to be – because Clint was okay, wherever he was.  She made herself believe that.  Her heart was already so battered that the rush of guilt assailing her left her raw and aching.  Clint had left with his past threatening him, dark and tormented and suffering, and despite fearing that he’d gone missing (and now knowing it for sure), she’d hardly spared him a thought through this ordeal.  She’d hardly spent a second worrying for him aside from a selfish wish he could be there to comfort her.  As much as she typically despised being so reliant on anyone, he was a great source of stability for her.  He always had been, and he always would be.  He’d left her.  And now he was lost.  _“I lost you the minute Fury reassigned you to work with Rogers.”_       

Sam seemed to read her mind.  “I’m sure he’s fine.”  Natasha looked to him with eyes that had glazed in disconcerted contemplation.  “He’s tough, and he knows what he’s doing.  He wouldn’t have sent me on if he couldn’t handle it.  Swordsman seemed like his cross to bear, and he was damn well set on bearing it by himself.”

She knew that.  Sam had briefly explained what had happened with Barnes and Duquesne earlier.  Clint did know what he was doing.  He was more capable of handling himself than anyone she knew, stronger, more pragmatic, more coldly confident than she’d ever be.  So she tried to take solace in that.  Hill was still calling him and monitoring the local and national news for anything out of the ordinary, but there seemed to be no hope for it.  They’d have to wait until he contacted them or until the time and opportunity arose to send out someone to find him.  Sam had already offered, once things settled down here.  She didn’t think anyone would be able to track him now if he didn’t want to be found.  Clint was a master spy; he was well accustomed to missions without support, without extraction.  _Clint’s going to be okay._   It was inexplicably harder to believe that now than it was to believe that Steve would be.

Unsatisfied with her own assurances, she was going to question Sam further when the distinct impression of _being watched_ crawled its way up her spine.  Every nerve in her body tingled in warning.  She jerked in a jolt of cold dismay, standing suddenly and whirling.

At the door to the room was Barnes.

Immediately Natasha felt defensive, shocked at his sudden appearance.  More than that, though, the inherent need to _fear_ and _hate_ this man rushed over her.  She’d known he was close, of course.  However, Bruce, Tony, and Fury had whisked him away almost the instant he’d arrived to get the blood samples they’d needed, so it had been easy enough to ignore or even forget him.  But he was right here now.  _He was here._

Sam had jumped to his feet as well, and he not so surreptitiously moved to stand in front of Natasha and Steve.  He was wary, not angry, prepared to fight if need be but hoping it would not come to that.  Maybe there was no way to be certain; Barnes was a killer and a torturer.  Their enemy.  And the mere sight of him invoked terror, even now with him unarmed and dressed in Steve’s clothes and his face so empty.  She couldn’t get past the awful memories.  Their night in Moscow, all of its pleasure erased by time, understanding, and love for Steve.  Being shot in Odessa.  Everything the Winter Soldier had done to them (had been _forced_ to do to them) during SHIELD’s collapse.  It would be easy to dismiss him now, to have the team get rid of him.  With Thor, Iron Man, and the Hulk here, there was no way Barnes could talk to her, let alone touch her or Steve, without her permission.  They were safe here.

Still, as she stared at him in the uneasy silence that followed, she made herself try to work through what she was feeling.  And when she did, she saw a broken man tentatively coming before her.  She didn’t know what he was looking for, or if she was good enough to give it to him.  But…  “It’s alright, Sam.  I…  I can talk to him.”

Sam glanced back at her.  “You sure?”

She hesitated a moment because she wasn’t.  Still, a part of her knew she had to be.  She was Steve’s wife.  She was understanding more and more what that meant.  “Yes.  Right, JARVIS?”

“Yes, Ms. Romanoff,” the AI calmly responded.  There was a warning note in his tone that none of them missed.  He could summon Iron Man and the Iron Legion here within seconds.

Sam was still reticent to go.  It took him another moment to convince himself.  He walked slowly to the door, keeping his eyes suspiciously on Barnes, exuding silent warnings all his own.  As he passed, though, Barnes reached out his arm.  Natasha’s heart leapt at the sight of it.  But he only grasped Sam’s shoulder, his flesh and blood fingers curling lightly into Sam’s shirt.  It was a fond action, not quite friendly, but far more than hostile.  He didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at Sam.  His eyes were planted on his shoes in what could only be shame.  Sam seemed to understand.  “I’m glad you came back,” he said softly.  It wasn’t exactly a token of trust, but it was sincere.  Whatever had gone on between them had changed them both, and Natasha could see that.

Then Sam left.  She had a feeling he wouldn’t go far, just outside in the hallway perhaps.  He did close the door, though.  That made her pulse race a bit faster, but she stood tall, defiant.  Guarding Steve despite how pregnant she was and despite the fact Barnes wouldn’t have come if he meant them harm.  She stared at him with narrowed, unyielding eyes.

Eventually he looked up.  Even then he didn’t meet her gaze.  It was out of fear or guilt.  She didn’t know which.  He seemed to deflate slightly.  “Is he going to be okay?”

She’d never heard him _talk_ before.  Not threatening.  Not menacing.  She didn’t look away.  “Yes.”

Barnes nodded.  He didn’t dare take one step closer.  She couldn’t help but feel for him, no matter how much she didn’t want to.  He seemed so low, so broken.  Confused and in pain.  A prisoner barely emerging from the control of his captors.  She had to admit that she knew what that was like.  And when she saw him now, struggling with emotions, struggling with memories…  _That could have been me._   If fate had been crueler, twisted in a different way, she might have never escaped the Red Room.  Had Clint never saved her.  Had Steve never loved her.  She could have been like _this_ , lost and tormented.  Everything Steve had told her the morning they’d argued before he’d left to hunt down Barnes came back with a vengeance.  _“How is what happened to him any different than what happened to you?”_   She’d never seen it before now, just how similar she was to him.  “ _Tell me why you deserve my forgiveness and he doesn’t!”_   She’d never seen it.

“I…”  Barnes faltered, wincing.  His gaze settled on Steve’s unconscious face.  “I remember him.”  He was struggling.  She could tell how hard it was.  That grimace remained as he spoke.  “I remember… his mom’s name was Sarah.  He used to wear newspapers in his shoes.  We used to… we used to go to school together.  Ebbet’s Field every summer.  Loved baseball.  He slept in my room sometimes, in my bed when it was cold out.  He used to draw real nice.  He got sick a lot.  I used to stop the big kids from picking on him.  He was…  He was smaller.”  Barnes shook his head.  “Then he wasn’t.  Then he was…”  His eyes flicked to Steve’s shield where it rested against the wall of the room.  “I remember him more than I remember…”  _Myself._   Natasha watched him battle his emotions, realizing _how much_ Steve meant to Barnes.  And how much Barnes – _Bucky_ – meant to Steve.  That she’d known, but again, she’d never recognized it fully.  Never understood it.  “I – I took care of him.  Promised his ma I would.  Took care of him when he needed it and even when he didn’t.  Promised I would.”

He lingered in the moment a long while.  Finally he turned to Natasha.  His eyes focused on her, gray and stormy.  It took her a moment to realize he was asking for confirmation, as if she could validate what he was saying.  She couldn’t.  Steve rarely talked about his life before waking up from the ice.  As she thought about it, though, she realized the details didn’t matter.  The emotions they invoked were what counted.  And those were real and true, so she nodded.

Barnes seemed relieved at that.  He kept staring at her, his expression unreadable for a moment.  “I remember you, too.”  The urge to shudder crawled its way up her back once more, but she tightened her muscles to stop herself.  “Black Widow.  We did a mission together.”

“Yes,” she said coolly, uncertain of where this was going.

“We… we shared a night together.”

She couldn’t find her voice, so she nodded.

He squinted again, like he was struggling to remember.  Part of her hoped he wouldn’t, not that night which to her felt like a disgrace and definitely not what Lukin had told her had come after it for him.  “It felt… good,” he murmured.  “Didn’t it?”  It had.  That was one of the most disgraceful parts of it.  “I remember that.  It felt good.”  One moment of pleasure like a bastion of comfort in a hellish eternity of servitude.  That was what it had been to him.  Why it had stuck with him.  She was terrified of that, like it had been something he would pull out of the dark places of his heart and mind that even HYDRA couldn’t touch, a memory he’d treasured because it was his only good one.  Free will and defiance.  She’d never been ashamed of her past, of how she’d slept with and used men to her own gains, until she’d fallen in love with Steve.  And again she was afraid of Barnes, but for entirely different reasons.  What if he wanted what they’d shared again?  Wanted more?  Wanted…  “But you’re his now.”

She subconsciously put her arms around her stomach.  “Yes.”

His face fractured in confusion.  “Peggy?”

That was too much now.  “She’s…  She’s gone.”

Barnes digested that.  He nodded, pushing his lips together tightly in a frown.  “And you’re…”  His eyes went to the prominent bulge of her stomach.

“Yes.”

His eyes glistened.  She couldn’t tell if it was from joy or pain.  Both, in all likelihood.  He was moving closer then, and she stood still.  Every instinct in her body told her to run, to get away from him because he was dangerous, but she made herself ignore it.  She held back a shudder as his metal hand slowly came up.  It was shaking.  So was he.  It hovered over her stomach, uncertain.  She was, too.  Trusting him like this.  Suddenly she wanted to.

But he snatched his arm away with half a sob.  He turned and headed toward the door.  “Wait,” she gasped.  “Barnes…  Bucky!  Wait!”

“I can’t,” he whispered.  He glanced at his metal fingers, horrified, and then curled them into a trembling fist.  “I can’t.  I can’t be Bucky.  I can’t be who he thinks I am.”

“You can be whoever you want to be.”  She knew that was true.  Now more than ever, she _knew_ that.

He met her gaze, and she saw the man beneath the machine.  He was bleeding and scared and so very vulnerable.  But he was there.  This was the man who’d tried to help Steve escape the Triskelion despite his orders, who’d aided Steve in saving her life when the Insight helicarriers had been falling from the sky.  The man who’d fought side by side with him against Omega Red, against the Red Skull and HYDRA, against bullies in back alleys.  This was the man who’d come back to save someone he loved like his brother.  _A good man._   “Maybe someday,” he conceded, closing his eyes.  When he opened them again, he seemed sure.  Stronger.  A touch of who he had been before.  “Take care of him.”

He was leaving.  He was practically vibrating with the need to do it.  She wasn’t sure about how that made her feel.  Angry.  Hurt.  Not for her sake but for Steve’s.  “You’re running again?”

He nodded.  “Have to.”

“No.  Steve–”

“Can’t stay.  Haven’t found my way back.  Not yet.  Not…  Might not ever.  Might not.  Maybe…”  He nodded again.  “Maybe someday.”  She didn’t understand entirely, but she didn’t question when his eyes gained a more determined glint.  “Don’t let him follow me.”

Her mouth fell limply open.  “You know I can’t stop him.”

The corner of his lips quirked in something that could have been a rakish grin.  In her mind she saw a picture of Sergeant James Barnes, young, sweet, and charming.  Undamaged.  Unspoiled.  “Spose that’s true.  Stubborn punk.”  Her heart swelled with appreciation.  With gratitude.  _“Do svidaniya._ ”

He was gone, and she was alone.  The room was quiet save for the monitors and the respirator and her own shallowly thrumming heart.  _“Do svidaniya,”_ she said to the silence.  _Until next time._

* * *

The day dragged on.  Three infusions later, the antiserum was doing its job in full force.  Bruce was rather shocked at how quickly things were getting better.  With Barnes’ serum-enhanced immune system rejuvenating Steve’s own, the virus was rapidly losing ground.  Within a matter of hours, his heartrate improved dramatically and his blood pressure stabilized.  An ultrasound of his abdomen revealed the massive internal bleeding was already healing.  His respiration improved so much that Bruce, normally so reserved and pessimistic, extubated him.  They all watched him conduct the procedure fearfully, irrationally worried Steve’s battered, bleeding lungs wouldn’t pick up the slack and start working for themselves again.  His chest rattled and wheezed at first, but in short order he was breathing on his own, and Bruce left him with only an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose.  And finally after so long, Steve’s fever broke.  A couple of hours into the treatment, his temperature dropped significantly.  Now he was bathing in sweat, literally dripping in so much perspiration as his body radically cooled itself that he soaked through his hospital gown and bedsheets.

Thor was helping Natasha change the bedding again, doing most (all, if she was honest with herself) the work of moving Steve’s limp body around while they got the cold, damp mess out and replaced it with fresh, dry linens.  Thor then cradled Steve in his arms while Natasha pulled off the sodden gown.  “Maybe just let him be?” she wondered aloud.  Steve was warm, not hot, shivering but more from shock than from anything else.  His body was burning through nutrients like mad now as the serum kicked into high gear to repair the damage and replenish his immune system.  Bruce had added more bags of saline and sugar solution to his IV the last time he’d been by.  Natasha was concerned, but he’d said it was alright for now.  If Steve didn’t wake up soon, though, they’d have to consider other means to feed him.

But Steve was going to wake up.  Natasha had asked before, when everything was vastly improved but their attempts to rouse him still proved ineffective, if there was some other reason he wasn’t regaining consciousness.  Bruce had said there could be any number of explanations.  He’d been without steady oxygen for more than five minutes when his heart had stopped beating.  He’d come out of cryostasis dangerously fast.  His fever had been unmanageably high for more than twenty-four hours.  The chances of brain damage were probably low, but Bruce couldn’t rule it out.  The stress on his body had been viciously intense ever since he’d gotten sick.  But, again, he’d advocated for waiting a little while longer before they really worried.

Natasha couldn’t stop.  Now that they’d come to the end of this nightmare and all signs were pointing to Steve’s recovery, she was more anxious, more jittery, more _afraid_ than she had been.  Maybe it was because the constant adrenaline of the last days was fading, leaving her nervous and uneasy.  Maybe it was because believing that it was over – _it’s really over_ – was seemingly dangerous, like nothing was quite real and if she let herself embrace things despite that, it would all turn out to be some kind of dream.  Maybe…

“Natasha.”  Thor’s warm, quiet voice invaded the hum of her head, and she forced herself to focus.  “Are you well?”

She jerked herself out of her malaise.  She’d drifted in the middle of undressing Steve, for crying out loud.  “Yeah.  Yeah, sorry.”

Thor smiled knowingly but not without concern.  “I believe he will be fine as such,” he agreed.  Together they laid Steve back down, and Thor went to gather some fresh blankets.

Natasha couldn’t make herself let go.  She hovered over Steve’s lax face, finally so completely free of the pain that had marred it for days.  He was even off the oxygen mask now, breathing well without assistance.  “Steve,” she called.  She cupped his jaw, brushing her fingers through the modest beginnings of a beard.  His skin was no longer mottled, the damage healing seemingly before her eyes.  He was already covered in new sweat despite the fact she’d wiped it away not minutes before.  “Steve, can you hear me?”  Just like she’d done the seemingly dozens of other times she’d tried this over the last couple hours, she stared intently at his eyes.  They were still a little sunken, still encircled by purple, lashes still flush to his skin.  Not even so much as a flutter of anything.  She swept her thumb over his lower lip, still swollen and bruised from being intubated.  “Come on.  Open your eyes.”  Nothing.

“Patience is a virtue,” Thor reminded with that same smile as he came back with the quilts.

“Yeah, well, mine is spent,” she grumbled.  Together they laid them over Steve’s large frame and tucked him in.

“Understandable.”  The demigod appraised Natasha without doing a thing to hide his worry.  “But perhaps you should rest.  It would do you some good, and I would hate to see those babes come into this world without Steve at your side.  Not after all this.”

Natasha cradled her belly.  The twins had been so calm and peaceful these last hours.  Not a movement.  Not a contraction.  It was as if her body knew the end was near, and it would wait.  _The calm before the storm._   A storm of another type, at any rate.  “I’m alright.  Made it this far.”

He nodded.  “Of course, but I do not mind sitting with him so that you can take some reprieve, just as before.”  His smile faltered.  “It is the least I can do after all you suffered.”

“It’s not your fault any of this happened. And it’s not your fault your father wouldn’t help us.”

Thor grunted.  “Perhaps not,” he conceded, “though I felt he was… unusually cold and narrow-minded.  And the fact that Heimdall’s sight could not locate Barnes…”  He sighed, clearly troubled.  “I fear there is something ill looming on the horizon.  My heart is filled with disquiet and has been since Loki’ scepter was lost.”

 _Loki’s scepter._   She’d forgotten about it entirely.  And Strucker.  And the attack on the summit.  The world had gone on during all of this, and she’d become so disconnected she hadn’t noticed.  Reconnecting right now, though, was too difficult.  “Wherever it is, I’m sure we’ll find it,” she said.

Thor seemed surprised at her optimism.  She was a little, too.  He smiled gratefully.  “Truly your faith sustains us.”  He looked to Steve’s peacefully slumbering form.  “And truly it was your faith that sustained him.  I would gloat about being right, but that would make me–”

“A jackass?” Natasha supplied with a teasing smile.

“I was going to say a ‘jerk’ or something of the like.”  Natasha looked away with an amused grin.  Subconsciously her hand went to Steve’s brow, brushing his sweat-dampened hair away.  How much comfort there was in such a simple touch.  It was peaceful, lulling, the feel of the soft strands through her fingers.  How different it was now than just a few hours before.  How _alive_ Steve felt, warm and solid.  She didn’t think she could ever take that (or anything else) for granted again.  “I told my father I thought he was worthy.”  Thor was staring at Steve, too.  “I believe that whole-heartedly.  There is strength about him that draws my heart to his.  Courage that is not often found.  It was not solely in jest, what I said.  I knew the fates would spare him.  At first it was only an inkling of a thought, but over these last hours, I am certain it was more.”  Thor looked to her.  “There is destiny about him.  And there is destiny about you and the children you carry.  I know not what, but I feel as though I am an instrument in a plot of great purpose.”

Natasha didn’t know what to make of that.  She was so tired and her mind was so overthrown that she really couldn’t manage a thought.  Thor actually flushed in embarrassment at her blank, helpless stare, and he gave her a sheepish smile.  “Forgive me.  I am weary as well.  I did not intend to prattle.”

“No, no,” she assured, “it’s fine.”

Thor didn’t seem to think so, but he didn’t press it.  “Are you sure you do not wish to sleep?”

“No.  I want to be here when he wakes up.”  Thor nodded and said nothing more.  He came over, kissed Natasha’s forehead gently, and then took his leave.

Alone at last with Steve, Natasha collapsed in her chair.  She winced at the ache in her back but didn’t let it trouble her too much.  Not that or thoughts of Barnes and how she really hadn’t thanked him before he’d left.  Gone again, it seemed, because no one had stopped him.  Not even Stark, who’d haunted the hallway a little earlier with tears in his eyes and something clenched in his fist before Pepper had come to lead his exhausted form away.  And she didn’t think about what Thor had said, either, though it did stick in her mind.  Or what Lukin had told her about her legacy.  She dismissed it all, _all of it_ , and grabbed Steve’s left hand and smothered it in kisses.  Again the sobs threatened, but she held them back.  “Come on, Rogers,” she beckoned after a deep breath.  “Wake up.  _Wake up._ ”

She held on and waited.

* * *

The storm had passed, and in its wake, the world was quiet.

He was there, floating somewhere in silence, peaceful and unbothered.  There was nothing here.  No nightmares.  No memories.  No pain or cold or fever.  No place or purpose.  Nothing but _nothingness,_ and it was pleasant in a way little else had been.  Tranquil simplicity.  It was almost as if time had stopped, holding its breath for fear the cruel, ravaging tempest that had so recently passed would return.  It didn’t.  One moment bled into the next until everything was the same.  Forward, backward, everything all around.  He’d been here before.  _Between life and death._   He’d been here more times than he cared to count, in fact, though the particulars were lost to him.  When and where and why.  _Who._   None of that seemed to matter.  He was weightless, formless.  Breathless and dreamless in a deep, deep sleep.

A quiet place, bereft of everything that made him who he was.

But some things remained no matter how much the storm tore away from him.

“Steve, can you hear me?  Come on.  Hold onto me.  _Please._ ”

He couldn’t stay here.  He had to hold on.  _Hold on._

If he tried hard (and it was so hard to try hard), he could think a little.  Fragments of memories.  Shards of dreams.  Wisps of things.  In the world of white, he’d been randomly attacked, bombarded without warning.  Here it was so difficult to gather it.  He was tired and spent, and fighting was beyond him.  When he did, though…  The when and where and why.  _Who._

 _“Breathe, darling.  Just keep breathing for me._ ”  His mother.

 _“You can beat this, Stevie.  I know you can._ ”  Bucky.

 _“You won’t be alone.”_ Peggy.

 _“You’re mine.”_   Natasha.

_Natasha._

He’d let go before, but he had to do better now.  He had to because she was there.  She was talking to him.  She was beyond the quiet.  Her voice like the breeze, like a cool, soothing balm, like a song reaching out to him, leading him home.  She’d always been there.  _Hold onto me,_ she’d said, but she’d held onto him.  And she was calling to him now.  He was sure of it.  Over and over, she was calling him.  Her voice cracked sometimes.  It was stricken with sorrow or taut with frustration or light with that tone she had when she was trying to hide how much she hurt with flirting.  “You’re an ass for doing to this me.  Can’t freaking believe you, Rogers.  If you wanted to make this harder, prove a point about me being able to handle this by myself, well, you succeeded admirably.”  Something cool swept across his face.  He could feel that.  And he could feel fingers in its wake, soft and tender in their caress.  “Trying on the rugged look again.  I do kinda like it.  Softcore lumberjack.”  A chuckle.  “You probably have no idea, do you, that you buy your shirts too small?  It’s like you still shop for the body you used to have, even after all this.  I’d tell you, but I kinda like that, too.  And I might leave them in the dryer a little too long.  Maybe just a little.”  She laughed.  A song again.  And another.  She was humming something, a sweet melody.  Like a lullaby.  Words in Russian.  She was singing to the babies.  _“Ty zh dremli, zakryvshi glazki, Bayushki-bayu…”_

He wasn’t strong enough to go yet, but he kept trying.  He knew he had to.  Time stopped being this indefinite, indistinct thing, and instead it stretched before him.  Moment by moment.  Vaguely he felt them passing, one after another in a seemingly endless parade.  And vaguely he knew she was with him for every one of them, there in the waking world just as she’d always been.  Her hands were in his, gently stroking.  She was close enough he could feel her quake with a weeping breath.  He could feel her desperation, her exhaustion.  Her misery and excitement balled together.  “I should ask you to quit.  I know I should.  I know I should.”  He could feel her suffering.  “But I can’t.  I can’t do that to you.  God, Steve, you don’t know…”  Her voice faded, and he was lost again.  Lost until she spoke.  “I know I can do this without you, but I don’t want to.  Please believe me that I don’t want to.  Listen to me now.  I need you.”  He was listening.  He _needed_ to go back.  He was free.  Free of the world of white, free of the quiet place, free of the pain.  He just needed to hold onto her, listen to her voice.  _Go to her._ “Steve, please…  Please wake up.  I need you.  We need you.”  He had a purpose.  _Love her.  Keep her safe._   “You need to wake up, Steve.  Do you hear me?  Come on.  Open your eyes.”  He had a place.  _With her._   _At her side._   “Come on now.  Come back to me.”  He had to do what she said.  She needed him.  She loved him.  He could do this.  Follow her voice and _live._ “I’m waiting for you.  _We’re_ waiting for you.  You’ve made it this far.  Come on, baby.  _Please._   Please come back…”

He came back.

Steve opened his eyes.  His eyelids were gummy and stuck together, but after a moment of trying, he managed to get them apart.  Then nothing would focus, a blur of color and light and shadow.  His brain felt detached from his senses, not thinking right, not processing what was coming in.  And his body oddly felt not _his_ body.  A few breaths and blinks began to correct that.  Overhead there was a smooth gray ceiling.  He was lying on his back in a bed, bare except for his underwear, and covered in a blanket.  Everything was fairly numb, a distant, tired ache like he’d used to feel after being so severely sick with the flu or pneumonia when he’d been a kid.  That disconnect that came from nearly dying.  His throat hurt miserably, though.  That was fairly difficult to ignore.  And it was hard to stay awake.  He was so tired, weariness that felt deeply set into his flesh and bones.  Despite all that…

_I’m alive._

A grateful, _grateful_ sob nearly burst through his lips at that.  He was alive.  Somehow he’d survived.  Somehow the crushing pain was gone.  Somehow he could _think_ again.  His memories were foggy, and he knew there were ridiculously huge gaps in them.  He could _sense_ that without even focusing on it, that the path from the moment he collapsed at the summit (which he recalled somewhat clearly) to here and now was jagged and jumbled and comprised of nightmare and hallucination as much as it was of fact.  There was one thing he knew with utter clarity.

_Natasha told me not to let go._

With monumental effort, he opened eyes that had slipped shut, lifted his head, and looked down his body.

She was there, slumped against his bed.  Her arm was across his belly, her head pillowed on his thigh and hip.  Hair as red as autumn was loose and spread over him.  Her face was pale.  Her eyes were closed.  Her lips were pursed in that little pout she always had when she was deeply asleep.  Her hand was wrapped up in his despite the tubes and things attached to his wrist and fingers.  She held it close to her face.  She was undeniably the most beautiful thing he’d even seen.

It was hard – he was still so weak – but he managed to gently untangle his hand from her grip.  His fingers shook as he swept them lightly over the crown of her head, brushing away the auburn waves.  She stirred almost instantly.  He hadn’t meant to wake her.  He wasn’t certain of much, but he was certain she needed rest more than anyone.  And she’d looked so peaceful, just as she had in his dreams, reaching out to him with love in her eyes and a promise on her lips.  Her eyes fluttered open, as though even in slumber all of her sharp senses were attuned to him, and they blinked hazily before settling on him.  “Steve?”

He smiled dopily.  “Hi, Nat.”

She stared at him in a fog of drowsiness for a long moment before she snapped to awareness, and then she was clambering up his body.  “Steve.  Oh, God, Steve!”  She rained desperate, feverish kisses all over his face.  “You’re awake,” she gasped in between them.  “You’re okay!”

He nodded.  “Babies?” he whispered.  “Are they–”

She laughed, leaning back a little so he could see she was still pregnant.  Very pregnant.  Steve choked on his breath a little.  He reached to her, and with her hands guiding his, he laid his palms on her stomach.  One of the twins kicked.  He could feel it.  _He could feel them._ They were there.  He hadn’t missed them coming into the world.  _He hadn’t missed it._

He let his eyes close, all but sinking into the mattress and pillows.  He was too weak to do much else, and the power of his relief, of hers, was overwhelming.  She sobbed loudly and happily into his mouth, cracking apart as he wove his trembling hands into her hair and held her close.  They stayed like that for what felt to be a long time, her kissing him frantically as if to assure herself that this was real.  That he was alive.  And he was.  When he kissed her back, every nerve in his body started to thrum with it, with joy and pleasure and power, and he held her as tightly as he could while she cried.  He cried with her.

Time lost meaning again as they held each other, cried together, breathed and lived and felt _together_.  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his tears damp in her hair.  He tucked her head under his chin, gathering her into his arms as much as he could.  “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright,” she promised.  “It’s alright now.”

“I heard… I heard you calling me.  Heard you telling me to hold on.  I held on, Nat.  I held on because you were there.”

“I know you did.”

“Love you so much.  I can’t even…”

He felt her smile against his chest.  Her lips pressed gently onto the skin over his heart.  “I know.  I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Do svidaniya._ – Farewell (until we meet again).  
>  _Ty zh dremli, zakryvshi glazki, Bayushki-bayu._ – But you must slumber with your little eyes closed. _Bayushki-bayu_.


	17. Chapter 17

The Barton family farm had never been much of anything even when it had been in its prime.  Clint’s father had been lousy at farming, even their modest sum of land, and he’d eventually given up on it to find work elsewhere.  He’d been lousy at that, too, barely bringing in enough money to sustain his family.  Drinking, yelling, and using his fists to get his point across was all he’d been good for.  He hadn’t even had a will when he’d plowed his car into a telephone pole while driving drunk one night with his wife beside him, when he’d orphaned his sons.  Neither Clint nor Barney had been old enough to formally inherit the property, whatever meager value it possessed with its fields overgrown and its equipment rusted out and useless.  When they’d been in the orphanage a few months after the accident, they’d met with the social workers and probate lawyers who were dealing with their parents’ estate, the house included.  With no income or assets to sell and with the debt of two mortgages on the home, one of the lawyers, a thin, reedy man Clint somehow could still picture, told them he was going to recommend the bank foreclose the property.  It had been in their best interests to let it go.  It wasn’t as if the house had been a bastion of fond family memories, so they’d agreed.  The bank had taken possession.  In the end, all they got was a few hundred dollars from the estate sale.  That was all it had been worth to them.

Sometime later, Clint had returned one night, drunk himself.  This had been after Barney had left him ( _abandoned him_ ), when he’d been well under Duquesne’s wing.  After their first heist, in fact, where they’d robbed a wealthy businessman who’d lived outside of Des Moines.  Clint had gone home, confused by adrenaline and guilt and booze, and ended up back in his old room.  Someone had bought the house in the years since they’d lost it, bought it, lived there, and left.  The house had been in foreclosure again, apparently forgotten and abandoned (not so different from him, when he thought about it).  He’d lain on his back on the dusty hardwood floors of his bedroom, staring at the daylight pouring through filthy, partially boarded windows, and wondered if the whole damn place wasn’t cursed, like his father and all of his cruelty and violence had been haunting it, haunting whoever had lived there after them, haunting him.  Maybe it was fitting, then, that he’d started using the old house as a place to stash his hoard.  Money and weapons, jewels, things he’d stolen.  His portion of the loot.  In the years that followed while he’d been the third man of Swordsman and Trickshot’s team, he’d returned often to add to his stash, almost like he’d been dumping all of his ill-gotten gains back at the source of his anger and pain.  Nobody had known.  Nobody had cared.

Then he’d fled the States the night Duquesne had been arrested.  When he’d returned some years later, not as a criminal but as a SHIELD agent, he’d repurposed his safe house a bit.  Surprisingly it took Cooper (for all of his infinite store of questions) a while to ask about it.  “What is this place?”

Clint sighed and looked around.  It had taken some effort over the years to do this.  They were in the basement of his old house.  It had always been large and a little damp, even when Barney and he had been kids, but it was much better now.  He’d built some walls and rooms a few years back.  Put in a bathroom and a bed.  Made it livable.  They’d arrived so early in the morning that Laura had carried Lila’s slumbering form in, bravely following him through the rundown house above to the locked basement door.  She’d been suspicious, but yet again, her trust somehow outweighed her doubts.  Cooper had followed, half asleep himself, and together Clint and Laura had deposited the two kids on the bed.  She’d settled with them, staying protectively close.  Clint had bidden her to rest, that he’d secure the situation and keep watch.  She’d nodded, but it had taken quite a while before she’d let herself fall asleep.

Now, a good six hours later of being holed up here (though it was exceedingly difficult to tell night from day in the basement as there were no windows), Cooper had recovered enough from the harsh events of the day before to start asking things again.  The Mitchell family had awoken a while ago from a brief, uneasy, and restless sleep.  They’d taken turns cleaning up in the solitary bathroom, washing, brushing their teeth, and changing into some new clothes.  At the moment Lila was sitting on her mother’s lap, eyes owlish and lips silent, as both she and Laura watched Clint gather up some guns.  Cooper was sitting next them, equal parts horrified and interested.  His expression was more than enough to motivate Clint to explain.  At least, explain part of it.  “We’re safe here.”

“If you stayed here when you were a SHIELD agent, and SHIELD’s HYDRA, won’t they know about it?” Laura asked worriedly.

“It was never on the books,” Clint said, and that was the truth.  He’d never told anyone about this place, never brought anyone here.  Not even Natasha.  He’d only used it rarely and on solo missions.  It was too much of a connection to his past that he couldn’t risk.  He appraised the guns he’d stockpiled over the last couple of years before SHIELD had fallen.  A few shotguns.  A couple of Berettas.  Three Colt M4 Carbines.  A decent supply of magazines.  A knife.  No bow and no arrows.  The last time he’d been here had been after an op where he’d spent the better part of two days tracking a few drug dealers across the States, drug dealers who’d had ties to more important threats.  That had been during the period when he’d been doing the Council’s drudgery, the lesser missions that no one else had wanted.  Hunting the bastards down and putting them out of commission hadn’t been that hard; he’d left them beaten up and cuffed to a couple of sink pipes in the men’s room of a train station in Chicago.  However, one of them had scored a lucky hit on him, and he’d come here to patch up his bleeding leg and lay low while the authorities cleaned up the mess.  He’d gotten what he’d needed in terms of information.  He always did.

But he’d never had the chance to replenish the weapons store.  This would be enough to stop anyone who attacked, hold them off for a while at least.  Plus they’d have to get through the basement door, which was reinforced, and that door was the only way in and out.  And he knew for a fact there were no links between him and the house.  When Fury had sealed and expunged his records, effectively erased his past from existence, this had gone with it.  He knew that because he’d bought the property under a false name with all the money he’d left here after he’d come back to the States.  He’d checked the results of the title search himself.  Fury had promised to take care of it, and he had.  Clint supposed it had been fairly easy for a man with the power the Director of SHIELD possessed.  It was even overkill, really, so much influence.  Clint had a birth certificate, an arrest record, and this skeleton of a home, and that was it.  Those few things and the night in December.  It wouldn’t have been hard to make him disappear, to rebirth him as a SHIELD agent.

Fury had left Hawkeye, though.  Hawkeye Clint had kept.  _“You need to have a name, kid.  A legend that inspires fear in your marks.  Something that lives beyond you.”_

 _“What, like you?”_ This had been after their first heist, and he’d been shaking hard coming down from that, from how close he’d come to actually killing someone.  From willingly breaking the law.  _“Swordsman.  That’s real fucking clever, Jacques–”_

The sword had shot in front of him, blocking him from walking away and nearly slicing his throat in the process.  _“No.  That was what they called me after I cut through fifty men with nothing but a single blade and my will to survive.  You want to know what power is?  It’s not money.  It’s not a title or land or political influence.  It’s not any of that bullshit.  It’s the power to take another man’s life.  It’s the power to make him beg for the one thing he can’t afford to lose.  Until you learn to do that, you’re nothing but a waste.”_   The blade had purposefully nicked the soft, vulnerable skin below his chin.  _“The next time I tell you to kill someone, you fucking do it.”_

Again he was remembering things he hadn’t thought about in a long time.  Like the walls that had held it all in place were eroding, weathering away from the strain, from the damage done to them by helping the STRIKE Team and Loki’s mind control and _dying_.  It was all seeping through.  Cracks in a dam.  He’d laid there on that dusty floor of his old bedroom, thinking about that, about how he couldn’t bear to kill anyone.  What that meant.  _Maybe he was on the wrong path.  His heart knew it even if his brain didn’t.  He stood up and looked through the grit and boards covering the window.  Out at the sun.  Down across the overgrown and unkempt field, hawks were circling for the kill.  Field mice.  One swooped low, talons curled and razor-sharp, and yanked its prey right out of the tall, thick grass.  Didn’t miss.  Didn’t hesitate.  Killed for the sake of survival.  Grace and beauty.  Power._

He’d had nightmares even years later that those birds hadn’t been hawks at all, but buzzards circling a corpse.

“Clint?”

Something wet and warm slathered over his hand, pulling him from his thoughts.  He looked down and found Lucky panting at his side, gazing up at him with friendly eyes.  Then he turned and found Laura and kids also watching him, only more concerned than anything else.  Damn, he was tired.  He didn’t want to sleep, but it was going to become a necessity fairly soon.  “We’ll be safe here,” he assured softly, casting away the memories and making himself focus.

“For how long?” Laura asked.  She wasn’t angry, but he could tell she wasn’t happy with this, either.  After all, why would she be?  They were trapped in a basement on the run from HYDRA.  Maybe now she was finally beginning to realize how much trouble he’d caused, how much danger they were in.  Maybe.  She was the most stubborn woman Clint had ever known, though, and that was saying something considering the company he regularly kept.

“I don’t know,” he conceded.  He checked the clock on the wall.  It was a little before lunch time now.  “We should lay low for another few hours.  Stay quiet here.”  With the truck safely hidden in the dilapidated remains of the barn and the generator running but quiet and hidden in the shed behind the house, there were no obvious signs they were here, which was the point.  “When it gets a little quieter this afternoon, I’m going to go into town and try and get in contact with the rest of the team in New York.”

Laura paled.  “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“Yeah,” Cooper agreed.  He reached up onto the table, keeping his hands far from the guns, to grab one of the SHIELD issue radios.  “Can’t you use one of these?”

Clint took the radio from him.  There were two, a short-range and a long-range, as well as a mobile phone.  Truth be told, he’d considered that, too.  Considered it and rejected it.  “It’s too risky.  I don’t know who’s monitoring those SHIELD frequencies now.  Could be lone agents still out in the field.  Could also be HYDRA.  There’s no way to tell.”  They didn’t need to know the specifics, but SHIELD was still in shambles, even six months after it had fallen and despite all of Hill’s efforts to try and gather its global resources.  It was a mess and too much of a risk.  Obviously HYDRA had its hands on the remains of SHIELD’s infrastructure if the firepower they’d thrown at them in Geneva had been any indication.  “It’s still safe if I call from an independent line.”

That plan was what had led them here, so it was understandable they didn’t like it.  Frankly, he didn’t like it either.  He didn’t like the idea of leaving them, even for a second.  But that was more agreeable that more than bringing them with him out into the open again.  If HYDRA or Swordsman or anyone else decided to attack him, he’d be the only one hurt.  And he’d let them take him.  If they came again, he’d surrender just to get them away from Laura and her kids.  He’d do anything, including letting Strucker have him.  Kill him.  It didn’t matter.

But he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell them that.  “It’s alright.  I’ll run into town.  Waverly’s a little less in the middle of nowhere than Clarkston.”  He managed a weak smile.  “No offense.”

Laura managed one, too.  “None taken.”

“There’s a Walmart here, or at least there used to be one a couple of years ago.  I’ll buy a prepaid phone, call New York, and get us some help.”  Laura’s eyes turned questioning.  “Stark can have us out of here right away.  If they can, they’ll extract us.”

“Whoa,” Cooper said, and he couldn’t hide the light in his eyes or his excited smile.  “Does that mean Iron Man’s coming?”

Clint looked at him and grinned with more fervor.  It was hard because the mere mention of everyone back at the Tower brought back his worry, sharp and undeniable.  Again, it was pointless; there was nothing he could do about Steve’s fate from here, and they had plenty problems of their own.  “Maybe.”

“Cool.”  Cooper beamed for the first time since before the attack yesterday.  He looked at Lila, but she kept herself curled up in Laura’s lap in the chair.  She hadn’t spoken in hours.  Cooper seemed momentarily distressed, but he covered it up.  “That would be awesome.”

Laura smiled and rubbed a hand through his hair gently.  “It would be.”

“In the meantime,” Clint said, “you guys should try to sleep some more.  Get a good nap in.”

Lila finally looked directly at him.  This whole time she’d been averting her gaze as though she was afraid of him.  “Are we okay here?” she asked in a small voice.

Clint looked at the weapons he’d gathered and felt like hitting himself.  Every time he thought he was doing right by these kids…  He picked up one of the damp towels that had been used for the showers and draped it over the guns so she couldn’t see them anymore.  Then, despite how much it pained him (and it pained him a lot), he crouched in front of Lila.  “We’re okay, honey,” he swore, “no matter where we are.  You got your mom and your brother.  You got Lucky.”  As if to agree (or maybe it was just because his face was at dog level), Lucky licked him almost right in the mouth.  “Blech.  Ugh, dog!”

Lila laughed a little, curling her hands into Lucky’s thick fur and tugging him closer.  The dog went willingly, licking her now.  She giggled when it tickled.  Clint smiled, so relieved that she was happier, that she _felt_ safe (even if he didn’t know if it was true).  Before he thought twice, he was laying a hand on Lila’s mussed brown hair.  “You guys and your mom are going to be _fine_ ,” he assured without a hint of doubt in his voice.

“And you too, right?” Cooper asked worriedly.

Clint turned back to him.  It was harder to keep smiling.  “Yeah, kiddo,” he said.  “Yeah, me too.”

Laura smiled gently.  “On that note, maybe you should sleep.”

Clint balked, grimacing and shaking his head.  “No.  No, I’m fine.  I can keep going.  Get things ready so that I can leave in a few hours.  Besides, someone should stay awake to make sure we’re…”   _Safe._ He stopped himself in time.  He couldn’t say that.  And he was exhausted.  He hurt in ways that he’d never imagined, and he knew he was running on adrenaline and pretty much nothing else.

Laura looked triumphant, realizing from his expression that she’d won this argument before it had even started.  “I can keep an eye out.  Or watch.  Whatever you secret super agents call it.”

Clint sighed.  “Alright.”

It didn’t take much to ready the safe house for sleep.  He limped around, making sure things were secure, checking the door again to be certain it was locked and deadbolted.  Laura was guiding the children toward area with the cot again.  There were spare blankets and sheets, so he grabbed them from one of the cabinets.  Lastly, as he passed the table with the weapons he’d gathered, he paused.  Glancing once at Lila who was snuggling against her mother, he put it all up higher on one of the racks.  High and out of reach.  He grabbed one Beretta and holstered it.

There was only one bed.  “You take it,” Clint said.

Now it was Laura’s turn to balk.  “You’re–”

“No.”  He was firm.  He was not going to make her and her children sleep on the cold, concrete floor, even if she wasn’t intending to sleep.  There was heat down here from the generator, but Clint had turned it very low to conserve gasoline and avoid attracting suspicion (just in case HYDRA was tracking them with infrared.  That was damn paranoid, but he wasn’t taking any chances).  She acquiesced without a debate, sighing unhappily before sitting against the wall against which the cot was pushed and gathering Lila in her arms.  She tucked the little girl in.  Cooper watched Clint worriedly before lying down beside his sister.  The cot was small, and it was a tight fit with the three of them, but they made it work.

Clint dimmed the lights and gingerly lowered himself to the floor.  Damn, it _was_ cold.  He grimaced before situating the pillow under his head and drawing the wool blanket over him.  It was dark aside from a few emergency lights and very quiet.  Lila was crying again.  Clint could hear her soft, weeping breaths and Laura tenderly shushing her.  He couldn’t help but hate himself anew for dragging them into this.  And he hurt.  _Everything_ hurt, down to his very bones.  His wounds.  His head.  His heart.  In the darkness, everything pressed close.  He closed his eyes and tried to ignore it.  It was too hard.

Apparently he wasn’t the only one suffering with his thoughts and fears and worries.  Cooper kept shifting around.  In the quiet, it was thunderous, every little movement he made.  Eventually he sighed, sat up, and climbed down onto the floor.  Clint jolted as the boy settled down next to him.  “What’re you…”

“You shouldn’t have to sleep on the floor.”  Cooper didn’t say anything, just burrowing close for warmth and comfort.  Clint stiffened.  He looked at Laura’s eyes, which were shining in the shadows.  They were wet and worried, but she nodded.  Clint wasn’t as sure.  Cooper put his back to him, looking to be hugged, so he did it.  He didn’t know what else to do.  He pushed his arm under Cooper’s shoulders and tugged him closer and held him tight.  He pulled the blanket over them both.

Like this, it didn’t take long to get warm.  And it didn’t take long for exhaustion to override his brain.  He was half gone, Cooper soundly asleep in against him, before he jolted awake again with a sudden concern.  Without hesitation, he reached down, pulled the gun out of his holster, and set it out of reach.

* * *

“I can’t let you do this.”

There was a gun.  A gun pointed at him.  A gun that was shaking but not shaking enough to be hesitant.  “Barney…”  It couldn’t have come to this.  _It couldn’t have._

But it had.  It was Barney.  Barney was an FBI agent.  Barney was _here._   “Clint, what the hell are you doing?”

That made him angry, angry at his brother, angry at the world, angry at _everything_ that had somehow led to _this moment._ “You’re not going to stop me.” _You can’t.  Walk away._

Barney’s finger tightened on the trigger.  A warning.  A promise.  “Yes, I will.  _What the hell are you thinking?_  We haven’t had much together, but we’ve always had each other.  You do this, you throw your lot in with this…  I gotta do what I gotta do!”

“So do it!  Do it or walk away.”

“I’m your brother.  I’m not walking away from you and I’m not letting you destroy yourself.  That’s why I’m fucking here!  I promised myself I’d take care of you.”  Now the gun did waver, lower, but not out of fear or doubt.  Out of hope.  “Come on.  Come with me.  It doesn’t have to be like–”

The gun went off.  Clint thought he’d been hit, but there was no pain.  No blood.  No shock.  Instead he heard Jacques snarl, heard bags hitting the bank floor loudly.  Whether or not he’d been shot was impossible to tell.  He was already moving, and his sword was coming out of his scabbard.  It was a bolt of silver lightning, slicing through the shadows.  The gun fired again, but Jacques was faster, and the blade was screaming toward Barney to cut him down like so many had been cut down before him.

But Clint was faster.  He whirled, dropping one bag and swinging the other up as hard and quick as he could.  The sword sliced right into the canvas, and money flew everywhere as the bag ripped open.  Bills fell like the snow outside, seemingly slow and unbothered, as Clint shoved Jacques back.  Jacques glared at him, at the lone FBI agent who’d dared to cross their paths.  He recognized him, of course.  And Barney recognized Duquesne, as well.  Of course he did.  “Drop the sword!” Barney yelled, sweat beading on his face and collecting on his brow beneath his mussed blond hair.  “Drop it now!”  Jacques did nothing, gazing at Barney smugly.  “Did you fucking hear me, Duquesne?  Drop the sword!  SWAT’s inbound, so there’s no escape–”

There was another glint at Jacques’ side.  Clint recognized what it was, but it was too late to stop him.  “Jacques, no!  _No!_ ”

The gun went off.  The gun that Duquesne had nonchalantly and uncaringly drawn from under his long coat.  The gun that he’d aimed at Barney.  The bang was so loud, echoing through the quiet, empty bank lobby.  And Barney screamed, grabbing at his gut which was already spilling red all over his hands, and fell.

Rage and horror burst through Clint, and suddenly _everything_ he’d been denying came bursting free of its restraint.  He howled, yanking his own gun and unloading the magazine at Jacques in absolute fury, but Swordsman was already gone, darting back into the shadows.  “Barney!” he cried, turning and dropping to his knees beside his brother.

Barney’s face was screwed up tight in pain, his fingers trying in vain to keep the blood in his body.  With one look at the wound Clint knew it was serious but not necessarily fatal; he needed to get Barney help.  All thoughts of anything else – finishing the heist or hiding from the authorities or his own _life_ – vanished.  Christ, it should have never come to this!  Barney’s slick, reddened hand grabbed his coat and yanked him closer.  “Stop,” he gasped.  “I came to stop you.  When Trickshot turned and I found out you were…  Couldn’t let you…  They would’ve…  I came to–”

“I know,” Clint whimpered.

“Jesus, Clint, watch out!”

Clint felt more than heard Duquesne’s strike.  It came from the left, and he rolled out of the way of the sword barely in time.  He reached behind and pulled his bow as he sprung to his feet.  Duquesne was already gone again, back in the darkness, and in the distance, alarms were wailing.  _Shit._   Clint nocked an arrow, creeping silently forward, trying not to listen to Barney groaning and gasping for air behind him.  He knew better than anyone how ruthless Duquesne was, how easily he would kill, how he coldly _reveled_ in it.  He knew better than anyone how dangerous this was.  He hardly dared to breathe, stepped away from an array of shattered glass on the floor from the melee before with the guards, keeping his steps light and his body ready.  There was a bloody footprint there.  Duquesne was hit.  That was something, at least, but it would probably barely slow him down.  His heart was jacked, but his grip on the arc of his bow was strong and his arm was steady as he swept the shadows.

There was a rustle to the left, and he let the arrow fly.  It hit nothing.  He didn’t let his frustration even begin to faze him, bringing every ounce of his training at the hands of the world’s now deceased best archer to bear as he nocked another arrow and fired at the next swish of air.  He heard the shot sink into the wood of the teller’s counter.  He drew again and pulled back on the string, straining all of his senses.  A brush of air behind him had him spinning and launching two arrows in quick succession.  That had been a mistake.  Again, he felt the sword slicing toward him just before he saw it, and that saved his life.  He brought up his bow, and the blade cut right through the arc.  Instead of letting go, he twisted the two halves around the blade, tangling it just enough to disarm Jacques.  Normally that would have been impossible, but Jacques had clearly not been expecting the counter strike, and in the faint light from outside, Clint could see he’d been shot in the left leg and it was bleeding badly.  He rammed his boot into the wound.  The sword clattered to the floor, and Jacques roared his displeasure, his pain only fueling his madness.  The knife came from nowhere, cutting straight through Clint’s shirt and jacket.  Blood flowed hot, but he hardly had the time to process that before Jacques swept his legs out from under him and vanished again.

Clint landed hard on his back.  The air went right out of his lungs, and his head smacked into the tile.  Those one or two seconds he was dazed and breathless felt like an eternity, and they were costly.  “You think you can just switch sides?”  Duquesne’s voice sounded far away.  Clint blinked and struggled to regain his senses.  He pulled his gun and stumbled to his feet.  “You think you can go back and be a good guy again?  You think you can _ever_ be good again?  Don’t be fucking stupid.  What did I tell you?  The world doesn’t favor the weak.  He walked away from you because he was weak!”

Clint was starting to think the exact opposite.  “He walked away, and I should have gone with him.”

He could practically hear Duquesne’s sneer.  “You wanted to be my protégé.  You wanted to learn to be what I am.  This is what that means.  You’ve been too much of a goddamn coward to embrace it.”  Clint grimaced.  He still couldn’t just cast it all away, not even now.  Not even with the cops coming and his future in the balance.  Not even with Barney bleeding on the floor.  He couldn’t deny how much he’d wanted the power to own his own fate.  He spun, trying to see into the shadows, but he knew he’d never be able to find Duquesne unless Duquesne wanted to be found.

And Duquesne wanted to be found.  Barney gave a hoarse cry.  “I’m not going down because of that, kid.  So this is it.  A final test.”

Clint turned, running back toward the shadows behind him.  But it was too late.  Jacques already had Barney up, an arm around his throat and a gun pointed to his head.  This time Clint couldn’t control his rage, and it left him shaking.  “Now who’s the coward?  If you want to fight me–”

“The Feds are coming.  Your brother here–”  Barney groaned as he was dragged closer to the door, the muzzle of the gun jabbed painfully into his temple.  “–made sure of that.  So this is it.  Your chance to commit, to get your head in the game.  Your choice.  It’s fucking high time you made it.  You either shoot me and stop me, or I shoot him and you come with me.”  Jacques smiled cruelly.  “It’s your choice.”

Clint’s blood ran cold.  _No._   The sirens were blaring louder and louder, shattering the calm, peace that had dominated the night.  Beyond the soft glow adorning the trees in the front of the bank, there were red lights flashing.  _No._ He met Barney’s gaze as Jacques pulled him closer and closer to the door.  Barney’s gray eyes were wide with terror and agony.  Blood glistened on that perfectly polished marble, nearly black in the poor light, pooling beneath the two men.  Clint tightened his grip on his gun.  “Let him go, Jacques.  Please.”

“ _Please?_   You’re kidding me.”  Jacques’ eyes flashed with disgust.  “I taught you better than to _beg_.”

“Clint!” Barney gasped.  He could barely breathe with Duquesne’s arm tight around his throat.  “Clint, please!  Please shoot him!  Please!”

“Now this is the sort of pathetic bullshit I’d expect from a man like this.”  Jacques shook Barney roughly, and Barney stumbled on his feet.  It was terrible to see him like this, _reduced_ to this.  Barney who’d always been stronger, faster, more in control, more _capable_ than anyone Clint had known…  He was sobbing.  Jacques glared.  “Not from you.  You’re _better._ ”

“Fuck you,” Clint snarled, sighting down his gun.  _Pull the trigger._   Christ, he couldn’t do it.  His finger tensed, but it was like the signal from his brain – _pull the trigger do it why are you waiting shoot shoot shoot_ – wasn’t getting to his muscles.  It never had in the past.  All the other times…  He never could.  He never could, and Jacques fucking _knew it._   Frustration left him gasping, his eyes burning.  “Let him go!  Let him go!”

“Clint, shoot him!  What are you doing?  Shoot him!  Christ!”  Barney wailed, and Jacques’ back hit the glass of the doors.  Outside the SWAT vehicles were blaring down the street, heading for the bank’s lot.  This was ridiculous.  Jacques couldn’t run with his leg lamed, or if he did, he wouldn’t get far.  Taking a federal agent hostage had guaranteed they’d hunt him until the end of his days.  There was no way out of this, and even if there was, there wasn’t time to take it.  Seconds only, and after that, they’d both be arrested and brought to justice for the crimes they’d committed.  So many crimes.  Until now, he’d never cared.  He’d _never_ thought twice until this moment.  And this moment, all of his hesitation right _here and now_ , somehow felt to be the worst crime of them all.  _“_ Clint, please. _Please._ Please shoot him! _Come on!  Please!”_   Clint felt sick and lost and _panicked_.  _“Clint!”_

“Go on, kid,” Jacques sneered.  “Be _worthy._ ”

_Shoot him!_

A gun went off.

And Clint woke up.  He barely stopped himself before he yanked his arm out from under Cooper.  Memories reformed in his head in a nauseating rush.  It was dark, but not so much that he couldn’t see the familiar outline of shelves and tables.  Something else was against him, pressed tight to his back.  He leaned up a little.  It was Lucky, and the dog watched him with worried eyes.  _Lucky.  Lila and Cooper.  Laura._ They’d gone to Iowa, but this wasn’t Des Moines in December of 1991.  This was March of 2015.  This was his safe house.  _Safe house._   Right.  That was where they were.  _Safe._

“Another bad dream?”

The soft question was thunderous in the silence, and it made Clint’s heart pound faster.  His eyes snapped to Laura where she still sat against the cinderblocks of the wall, Lila half in her lap and half curled around her and fast asleep.  And Cooper was peaceful, too, undisturbed though Clint was gasping and trembling and sweating despite the chilly floor and air.  It seemed unreal, to go from the hell of that moment – that moment _he never thought about_ – to this serenity.  This purity.  These two children and their mother.

But here he was.  He got control of his breathing, suddenly baking in his skin and revolted by the perspiration clinging to him.  “Yeah.”  He eased his arm out from under Cooper gently, taking great care not to bother him.  “Yeah.”

It was quiet, painfully so.  The last vestiges of the awful memory were slow to release him.  Like the dam was breaking…  It really was all coming out now.  Fury sealed the records, lied on his behalf, falsified documents and disguised the truth for years.  But even he wasn’t powerful enough to clean Clint’s conscience.  “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head automatically.  His throat was as dry as a desert.  “No.”

Her eyes were deep and dark, but again, they were somehow the only light in this world.  “It… it might make you feel better.”  _It won’t.  Never.  Never._   His heart clenched in his chest, his gut tightening and tightening and his lungs failing him.  Laura smiled sheepishly.  “I’m a good listener.”  _I know._   It was hard not to take her up on this.  He’d never talked about it.  _Never.  Never._   Not with Natasha.  Not with Sharon.  Not with _anyone._   This had been very far into his past, and that was where it should have stayed.  But dying and goddamn _fate_ had fucked everything up.  “Even my bastard of an ex-husband thought so, back before he decided _domesticity_ didn’t fit in his with his hobbies.”  That made Clint flinch, that she was abruptly talking about the man who’d wronged her so completely.  It stirred the hornet’s nest of emotions buzzing inside him.  She seemed to see that, so she smiled sadly.  “So if you want to talk, I’ll–”

“Laura.”  The timber of his own voice surprised him.  It was low and calm.  Steady.  She watched him, surprised herself.  “You don’t want to know this about me.”

Her face hardened in irritation.  “You don’t know what I want.”

He couldn’t.  He could never tell her the truth.  _Never._   “I – I can’t.”

“I know this place isn’t just a safe house.  I can see it in your eyes, Clint.  This is where you grew up, isn’t it.”  It wasn’t a question.  He shuddered, tearing his eyes away and for once hating her for her perceptiveness.  “This is where you thought you were coming home to the night you stumbled onto my porch.”

Anger stoked his resistance.  “It doesn’t matter.”

Laura wasn’t convinced.  “It does.  It does because it’s hurting you.”

That made him even angrier.  And the same argument came back.  “You don’t know _what_ I am.  You don’t know what I did.”

“Then tell me,” she ordered evenly.  “ _Tell me._ ”  That was an invitation no one had really ever given him.  Natasha had listened in the past, of course, and she would have listened to this had he ever had the guts to tell her.  She would have understood as well, because she also had blood on her hands.  But Laura was…  She was _good_ and beautiful and sweet and so much more than nice.  She was everything _he wasn’t._   So no matter how much he wanted to take that invitation, he couldn’t. 

She was persistent, though.  So stubborn.  “What happened to Barney?”

Somehow that question, that question that she’d asked in one way or another over and over again the last few days, was all it took.  Simple.  Direct.  All of this went back to Barney.  “He’s dead.”

She nodded.  She couldn’t have _known_ that, of course, but it made sense, and he realized that underneath the buzz of misery and pain and _Christ don’t do this_ in his head.  She watched him, her eyes empty and unreadable.  Her tone went even quieter.  “Who was he?”  There and again, she asked.  His family.  His past.  His _mistakes._ “What happened?”

She wanted to know him.  She’d told him she wasn’t afraid.  He’d tried to push her away, and she hadn’t let him.  And now he was there, right on the edge, the edge of where Duquesne and what had happened to him had pushed him.  The world was out of focus.  It looked strange.  It sounded strange, and not just because he could only hear out of one ear.  Laura, though…  Laura was clear.  _Right._   She had been from the moment he’d seen her on the porch, half out of his mind with pain and delirium.  And the words came.  “He was my older brother.  Our parents died when we were kids.  He took care of me for years, in the orphanage we were in, and then when we ran away…  I… was so angry about everything.  I hated the world, hated our father.  I think I hated myself most of all, because I was little and had nothing.  I ended up falling in with some bad people.”

“The man who’s after you?”

He could only nod to that, shame and revulsion drowning his soul in filth and mud.  He sucked a deep breath in through his nose and let it out through his mouth, mustering his equanimity.  _The lie’s stood long enough.  The past deserves its due._   “When he found out what I was doing, Barney wanted me to run with him again.  Get away from that world.  Go finish school.  He wanted to join the army.  But I didn’t want to go.  I _liked_ what I was doing.  I can’t lie about that.”  He sniffled, staring into the darkness.  “We fought.  He was like that, like our dad.  Short fuse and everything his way or no way, only he had a good heart to go with his bad temper.  He was trying to protect me.  He always was.  He kicked the shit out of me.”  He’d even lied about that.  He’d lied about it to the Avengers, to _himself_ for so long that he actually couldn’t remember now.  They’d fought.  Punches and kicks and wrestling in the grass outside the carnival.  He remembered pinning Barney and pummeling his face, but Barney was bigger and stronger and he’d always be that way.  Then again Clint had been faster at that point, faster and smarter and Jacques was teaching him to be _more_ , and now he wasn’t sure if he’d won or lost or if it even mattered.  “He went his way and I went mine.”

She watched him.  She was quiet, nonthreatening.  Not pressuring.  A good listener, just as she’d promised to be.  Just as he’d always been for Natasha, so he knew the ropes.  He knew not to push, not to judge.  Not to interrupt.  Not to force one’s own opinions into the mix.  It was odd being on the other side of it.  Odd, but not as uncomfortable as he’d feared.  He went on after a seemingly interminable moment of silence.  “Our paths crossed a few years later.”  There was no sense in lying now.  “I was involved in an armed bank robbery.”  No sense in dressing up the ugly truth.  “I was there with the man who’s hunting me.  We were… partners, I guess you could say.”  Still he tried.  _Fucking coward._  “No.  He was the man who trained me to be what I was.  And what I was was a thief.  We robbed and we drank and hoarded our riches like this made us better men.  I hoarded mine right here, in this basement.”  He expected disgust.  Again, there was none.  “So we’re robbing the bank.  And the FBI shows up.”  _Exaggeration._   “ _One_ FBI agent shows up.  And it’s Barney.  Barney coming to rescue me.  The Feds had been tracking us for weeks, and when Buck – when another one of our guys – ratted us out, Barney got a hold of it first and figured he play the hero and my personal savior.  We hadn’t seen each other since we split.  There he was, trying to get me to walk away.  Again.  And I couldn’t do it.”

His voice was getting rougher, more agitated.  The memories were so close to the surface, hazy with the dream but vivid enough that he could taste his sweat, hear his heart pounding.  Barney was begging.  _Begging._   “Things went to hell.  Barney got hit because he was in over his head, and I tried to protect him.  My partner used him against me in some sort of fucked up hostage situation.  He’s got a gun to Barney’s head, and I’ve got my gun on him, and Barney’s screaming at me to shoot him.  I’d never shot anyone, Laura, _never_.  Not on any of these jobs.  No one.  I couldn’t do it.  Jacques… he was riding me hard about it.  He thought I was a coward, that I wouldn’t amount to anything because I couldn’t do it.  And now Jacques has got Barney like some goddamn human shield, and I need to kill him, and I know I could make the shot, I _know_ it, but I can’t do it.  I can’t.  I couldn’t.  I–”

Barney’s pleas echoed through the silence, hoarse and terrified and every bit as desperate as they had been twenty-five years ago.  Clint closed his eyes, surprised at the burn of tears despite all that time.  He closed his eyes, balling his fist so tightly his hand shook, and tried not to acknowledge the memories.  Barney screaming.  The useless weight of the gun in his hand.  Jacques’ cruel, knowing, _smug_ smirk as he realized Clint wouldn’t kill him, as he shoved Barney forward just enough to put a bullet in his brain.  Barney’s body falling.  _Falling._ Just another casualty in the chaos they were causing.  “He’s dead, Laura.  I needed to make the shot, and I couldn’t do it.”

She didn’t argue.  Didn’t try to assuage his guilt.  He was grateful for that, because there was no denying what he’d done.  “So that’s the truth you wanted to know.  I was an accomplice to a federal agent’s murder.  My _brother’s_ murder.  I let Jacques kill him.  I could have stopped it, but I didn’t.  I was too weak.  And then I ran like a fucking coward when the cops came, ran and let Jacques take the fall.  He went to prison for life, at least until HYDRA returned.”  He heaved a shivering sigh, so fucking _ashamed_ of himself.  “And I went and became the very thing I was terrified of becoming.  I let all that hate inside me consume me.  I swore to myself I’d never hesitate again, and I didn’t.  I killed people, Laura.  I told you before.  I did it for money.  I did it for power.  I did it over and over again.  I was the fucking _best_ assassin in the world.”  _Hawkeye._   “I turned into _exactly_ what he wanted me to be.  A murderer.”

That hung in the silence for a long time.  The truth.  His awful past.  His dirty confession.  He couldn’t bear to look at her.  Merely imagining the _revulsion_ he’d knew he’d see there was too much.  “And then SHIELD got you,” she said.

He nodded.  “They caught me.  Someone was bound to, sooner or later.  They offered me a deal: work for them and have a chance at a future or go to jail and pay for my past.  Even then I was too much of a selfish coward to do what I should have done.”  That was what he’d deserved.  Rotting in a cell right next to Duquesne.  The mentor and his protégé.  The master and his apprentice.  He grunted.  “They even did me the honor of erasing the truth.  Destroying the warrants and the records and falsifying everything so no one would ever know.  Isn’t that convenient?  Want a new life where you can just be a good guy, be an Avenger even?  They made it happen, and I _let_ them do it.”

He couldn’t stand it anymore.  Not the quiet that came again when his harsh whispers faded.  Not the weight of his conscience or the pain in his heart or his breaking spirit.  It was too much.  Barney.  Duquesne.  What Loki had done to him.  Watching Natasha almost destroy herself when she’d shot Steve.  The STRIKE Team and HYDRA and Project: Insight.  SHIELD falling.  Omega Red.  Everything he’d left behind in New York.  It was _all too much._   Before he knew what was happening, there were tears rolling down his cheeks.  The salty taste of them surprised him, and he squeezed his eyes shut in shame, so many fucking layers of _shame._ In the faint light, he prayed she wouldn’t see.  “You still think I was worth saving?”

“Yes.”  He looked at her.  She was watching him, her expression that placid bit of a frown she wore sometimes, her eyes open and sincere.  There hadn’t been a hint of doubt in her voice.  “And I’m not the only one.”

His bitterness surprised him.  “Steve Rogers?  He’d save anyone if he could.”

“Maybe, but… I meant God.”

He looked at her again, surprised she’d say something like that.  He couldn’t recall seeing anything around their house that signified she was religious.  There’d been a Bible, sure, but it looked like it hadn’t been opened in a while.  She didn’t wear a cross.  “You believe there’s a God?  Because the way this world works is pretty fucking strong evidence against it.”

She wasn’t put off by his tone.  “I believe that there’s a reason things happen.  That _someone_ is looking out for all of us.  There’s a _reason_ you came back, Clint.”

“Because Rogers saved my life–”

“ _More_ than that,” she insisted softly.  “There’s a reason why God brought you back.”  He balked a little at that; he couldn’t help it.  “God or fate or whatever you want to believe.  There’s a reason.  And there’s a reason you wandered all the way from Walt Murray’s farm and made it to mine.  There’s a reason you made it, even as hurt as you were, even as far as it was, even with all the other places you could have collapsed.”  He couldn’t let himself believe that.  It wasn’t good enough.  “There’s a reason you’re an Avenger, that you keep fighting with everything that happened to you.  All those scars you don’t want me to see, your damaged hearing, _everything,_ Clint.  There’s a reason my son looks at you with nothing but respect and adoration in his eyes.”

“Laura, please, you can’t–”

She was moving, gently sliding out from beneath Lila’s slumbering form.  The little girl murmured but didn’t wake as she was resettled.  Laura slipped down to the floor beside him, an angel in the darkness.  She cupped Clint’s face, her thumbs wiping away the tracks of his tears.  “Your past doesn’t define your future.”  Again he couldn’t stand to look at her.  He wasn’t _worthy_ of looking at her.  How could she not _see_ that?  But she didn’t let him turn away.  “You’ve done bad things.  Made mistakes.  And maybe… Barney’s dead because of you.  But that was years ago, and you’ve done so much good since then.”

“It’ll never be enough,” he whispered hoarsely.  “Never.  I’ll never be good enough.”

“You need to forgive yourself.  Not just forget it, but forgive yourself for it.  You can’t change what you did.  You can only go forward.  And maybe…  Maybe what happened to you was a second chance.  You died.  You came back.  There’s a _reason_ for that.  It’s a chance to start over again.  Away from your past, away from SHIELD and whatever else has hurt you.  That’s what it is, Clint.  A chance to start over.”

 _And she’s giving it to me, with both arms open._   That thought seemed so familiar.  It took him a moment to realize why.  _What I said to Nat.  When Steve asked her to marry him and she didn’t know what to do…  That’s what I told her._

Maybe things did happen for a reason.

She was so close, her hands tender on his face, her eyes bright and glistening in the faint light.  His fingers shook as he reached up and brushed her hair back.  She was watching him, still with so much trust despite knowing the truth.  Waiting.  He could kiss her.  He wanted to.  He desperately wanted to, more than he’d ever wanted anything.  Kiss her and let her take care of him.  He wanted to crawl inside the faith she had in him – the faith he didn’t deserve – and be warm and _safe forever._   He wanted–

“Mommy?”  Lila’s soft call interrupted the moment, and Laura turned away from him.  She moved again, quietly and carefully climbing back into the cot to shush her daughter before she woke.  Clint was left reeling, trembling, shaking in the shadows.  Suddenly staying still was impossible.  He had to go.  He had to make this right.  He had to give them their lives back, get them home safe.  _He had to._

It took a little maneuvering to untangle himself the rest of the way from Cooper.  He covered the boy on the blanket and worked the pillow more under his head.  Cooper didn’t stir, not even as Clint laid a hand on his messy hair.  He stood, his wounds protesting the movement sharply, and grabbed the gun he’d had before.  He returned that to his holster.  He took a shotgun, an M4 carbine, the combat knife, and some extra magazines from his stash.  He grabbed his jacket.  “Clint.”  He looked up.  Laura was watching him, gently caressing Lila’s hair she where was laying on her lap and again fast asleep.  She smiled weakly.  “I knew.”

He didn’t understand.  “You knew?”

“Well, I…  I keep telling you.  You talked a lot in your sleep.”  He stared at her in confusion a second more before he got it.  She’d figured out the truth about Barney.  That he’d died.  That Clint had been responsible.  “I didn’t know all of the details, obviously, but I figured out what happened more or less.”

“You…”  He didn’t know whether he should feel angry or a little betrayed or impressed or relieved.  He was all of it, to be honest.  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I thought you’d tell me when you were ready.”  She smiled again.  He couldn’t help a little laugh at that.  “And you know what?  I still thought you were worth saving.”

He couldn’t help his laugh.  Soft and genuine, it burst from his lips, and he smiled and shook his head.  “You’re…  You’re amazing.”

She blushed and laughed a little herself.  “Go call your friends,” she said.  “And then come right back.”

Clint nodded.  “You’ll be okay here?”

“Sure.”  She was nothing but confident in him.  She always had been.  He wondered for a moment if she wasn’t right, if all of this hadn’t happened for a reason.  If he hadn’t been meant to walk that path he’d somehow and against all odds walked from Murray’s farm to Laura’s porch.  If Barney hadn’t somehow been leading him to exactly where he needed to go…

_Home._

He smiled at her, really and truly smiled.  He felt good.  Better than he had in years.  In forever, maybe.  “See you in a bit.”  She smiled, too, and nodded.  Clint turned and headed toward the steps.  Lucky was sitting there.  Apparently during their talk he’d gone to the door, like he’d known this was going to happen and he was waiting.  His tail immediately started wagging when Clint looked at him.  “No, no.  Lucky, you stay.  Come on.  Go over there.”  The dog wouldn’t budge, standing instead and panting expectantly, wagging so hard now that his whole butt was swaying.  Clint shook his head.  “Come on.  Be a good boy.  Go.  Over there.”

Lucky had other ideas.  He’d planted himself firmly in Clint’s way, and he was clearly not going to be left behind.  He adamantly stared Clint down with that dopey dog look that screamed _“you’re my master so I go where you go”_.  Clint sighed.  “It’s alright,” Laura said softly.  “Take him with you.”

Clint was dubious (for multiple reasons, not the least of which being he’d never cared much for dogs).  “You sure?”

Laura shrugged.  “I’d feel better knowing he has your back.”

Clint patted Lucky on the head.  The dog practically bounced in happiness, licking his hand like crazy.  “Alright, alright.  You win.”

“See, even the dog thinks you’re worth saving.”

He shook his head, blushing.  “Alright, I get it.”

Laura smiled.  “Be careful.”

“I will.”

* * *

Sure enough, there was a Walmart exactly where he’d remembered.  It was midafternoon, the sun poking its way through mottled gray clouds to splash the world in a little color before succumbing and giving up for the day.  Clint parked the truck near the back of the lot but not so far away as to seem like he had something to hide.  He sat there a moment, watching the cars around him.  Nothing seemed suspicious.  He waited longer than he might have otherwise, just to be certain.  He felt… weird and unburdened.  Free in a way, maybe for the first time ever, and he was having a bit of a hard time concentrating.  Eventually he was confident that it was okay to go in.  “Stay,” he ordered Lucky.  The dog stopped panting and raised his ears at him, head tipped and eyes questioning as if to say _“you’re not leaving me, are you?”_   Clint felt stupidly guilty at his expression and reached over to rub his hand down Lucky’s soft, fluffy head.  “It’ll just be a minute.”  He couldn’t believe how ridiculous it was to feel bad about going.  Rolling his eyes at himself, he made sure the guns were covered in the back.  He pulled the Beretta from the holster on his belt and put it in the glovebox.  Taking a deep breath, he opened the car door and headed out.

Thankfully the store wasn’t too busy.  There were enough people that he could blend in but not so many that it was difficult to get in and out quickly.  He found the prepaid cellphones and bought the cheapest one plus a car charger in case he needed it.  Then he walked back out to the car, forcing himself to keep his pace even and unhurried.  Brisk but not frantic.  He reached the truck, unlocked the door, and sat inside.  Lucky was waiting for him, tail wagging and pink tongue coating him in slobber.  Clint pushed him aside gently, letting the dog have a moment to greet him before shutting the door.  He released a long, relieved breath.  “See?  Piece of cake, right?”  Lucky sat back down on the passenger seat, looking around outside like he was keeping watch while Clint pulled the phone from the bag.  It was, of course, sealed in one of those godawful molded plastic abominations.  He grabbed the combat knife he’d brought (somewhat overkill, but it was the only option) and went to work sawing and cutting.  It dulled the blade something fierce, but a few minutes of work (and after nearly slicing himself far too many times), he had the phone free.  It was already charged.  He quickly read through the instructions, did what was necessary to get it working, and punched Maria Hill’s private number in.  “Pray she answers,” he said to Lucky.  “And pray nothing interrupts me this time.”  He tapped the SEND button and held the phone to his ear.  Lucky panted beside him.  “Are you praying?”

Lucky just cocked his head and gave Clint another patented vacant dog stare.  Clint couldn’t help his smile.  The call went through, and it started ringing.  He forced his heart to stop pounding, taking a few long, deep breaths.  _Come on, Hill._   He tapped the steering wheel nervously, looking around yet again.  There was still nothing, but he couldn’t stop fidgeting.  This number was going to come in as something Maria wouldn’t recognize.  JARVIS would likely be able to track the call but wouldn’t have any information on the caller other than the location.  Hopefully she’d put two and two together and take it anyway.

She did.  “This is Maria Hill.  Who are you and how did you get this number?”

“Hill, it’s Barton,” Clint gasped, trying not to sound as desperately relieved as he felt.

She didn’t do a very good job of hiding how relieved she was, either.  “Clint?  Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he responded quickly.  He closed his eyes and pressed his palm to his forehead, unsure of what to say.  “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“What the hell happened?  We’ve been trying to contact you for days!”

He closed his eyes.  “Long story.”  He could hardly breathe, his throat tightening.  Throughout everything, his worries over the fate of his friends had lurked in the back of his mind.  His shame over failing his mission.  Now…  He had to ask.  “Is Cap…”

“He’s okay,” Maria responded.  “He’s alive.  Sam and Fury brought Barnes back in time.”

Clint jabbed his teeth into his lower lip, swallowing down a sob.  He turned his burning eyes upward into the ceiling of his truck, wondering what the hell he’d done to get this lucky twice in a matter of days.  Laura had saved him, and Sam had gone on to do what he hadn’t been able to.  “He’s going to be alright?”

“Yes.  He’s already doing much better.”

He still didn’t believe in God, but he thanked him all the same.  _Wilson and Fury found Barnes.  Steve’s okay._   “Christ,” he whispered hoarsely, wiping at his eyes.  God, he needed to get a hold of himself.  “That’s… that’s really good news.  Romanoff?”

Maria paused a moment, like she, too, was trying to gather her equanimity.  How close a call had it been back at the Tower?  He didn’t want to think about it.  “She’s fine, too.  It’s a miracle, but she made it through all of this without going into a labor.”

Maybe that was a minor thing in comparison to Steve being safe, but that was what wrested the grateful tears from his eyes.  Clint leaned forward to tiredly brace his head against the steering wheel.  _Natasha’s fine.  And she didn’t have the twins._   Steve would be there for the birth of his children.  Clint knew how much that meant to her, how much she needed Steve.  This was like a weight off his shoulders, a vise loosening from his heart.  His failure hadn’t cost Steve his life or Natasha her heart or their children their future.  _Everything was alright._

“Clint?”

He got a hold of himself, sniffling.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I’m here.”

“What about Swordsman?”

“Don’t know.  Might have killed him.”  That didn’t seem likely with what those HYDRA thugs had said, but maybe they didn’t know or maybe they’d been lying.

“Might have?”

“Things went to hell.  I took a bad hit.  I’ve been laying low, trying to get clear.”

“Well, there’s been no sign of him.  Wilson said the cops are all over the men you killed at Murray’s farm, but I can’t confirm if any of the bodies was him.”  Clint closed his eyes.  _Damn it._   “You want me to send Iron Man to extract you?”

 _Yes._   That was what he should have said.  That should have been his answer without a second thought.  Have the team come and collect him.  Get him to safety.  Take Laura and her kids with him or relocate them to a safer position until the threat was vanquished and their house was clear.  But it didn’t automatically come out.  He didn’t _want_ to have the others come rescue him.  That was petty and stupid, but it was true.  Now that he was at the moment where it was actually possible, he didn’t want to admit defeat.  Duquesne was his problem.  His past was _his problem._   As ridiculous as it was, this was akin to accepting that he couldn’t handle it.  And there was more.  He couldn’t make this decision without at least asking Laura.  This was her life, her children.  Her home that had been compromised.  Perhaps he’d already exposed them to this world, to the Avengers and the sort of dangers they faced, but…  It felt wrong to embroil them even more.  He felt like he owed them more than completely uprooting them.  At the very least, he needed to talk to her first.

Maybe those were decent reasons.  But the one loudest of all in his heart…  _He didn’t want to leave them._

“Clint?  Are you there?  I’ll send Stark.  I’ve tracked your signal to Iowa.  He can be there in minutes.”

“No,” he said.  He swallowed down the lump in his throat, looking over at Lucky.  The dog was staring at him.  He reached over and petted his soft fur again.  “No.  Just give me a few hours to reassess.  The situation’s… not that simple.”

“Not that simple?”

“I’ll call you again.”  This was ridiculous.  _He needed to go._

Maria hesitated, like she couldn’t understand why he didn’t want to come in.  Truth be told, he didn’t entirely understand it, either.  “Roger that, Barton.  I’ll let the others know you’re okay, and I’ll stand by.”

“Thanks, Maria.”  He ended the call and leaned into the steering wheel again.  “What the hell is wrong with me?”  They were safe here for the time being.  Another hour or so wouldn’t matter, would it?  There was no indication HYDRA even knew who Laura and her kids were.  The men who’d spotted them were dead.  He’d been running all this time based on an assumption that they were in danger, but maybe staying with _him_ was the only source of real peril now.  Perhaps it would be best if he went back, talked over the options with her, let her decide if she wanted to come with him…  “This is stupid.”  His emotions were clouding his judgment, and he _knew_ it, but he didn’t stop himself.  He’d return to the safe house.  Maybe bring some actual food instead of the nonperishable junk they’d been eating since yesterday.  Then he’d let Laura know her choices, and they’d make a decision about whether or not she and the kids would go with him to New York.  With the aid of the Avengers, they could secure Laura’s farmhouse and they could go home.  That was what was best.

He was driving again without realizing it.  There was a pizza joint in a strip mall next to the Walmart, and he stopped there.  He bought two large cheese pies (he didn’t know what the kids or Laura liked on their pizza, so this was safe) and some liters of soda.  He set that in the back of the truck, and then he was driving back to his old house, stomach rumbling at the smell of dinner and windows partway down to allow the cool air to keep him focused.  He was trying not to think.  Trying hard.  Trying to believe he wasn’t being selfish, keeping Laura and the kids to himself to at least a little longer.  _You’re a piss-poor liar._   He made the turn onto the country road, the truck rumbling over the ruts.  His mind was racing but without traction.  He knew the truth, when it came down to it.  _I don’t want to leave them.  I don’t want to let them leave me._ As he pulled onto the private drive that led to his old home, he had to admit it.  He had to, to himself at least but maybe to her as well.  He had to admit to himself how much he was falling in love–

_“Get out of the truck!”_

Clint barely had a chance to react, to realize what a monumental mistake he’d made, that HYDRA had somehow tracked him _all the way here_ and he should _never_ have left Laura and _oh God leave them alone_ before he was forced to slam on the brakes.  There were vans blocking the long driveway to his house, black and menacing, and out of the back of one a man with a minigun aimed at him.  There was no time.  He grabbed Lucky by the collar and yanked him down as bullets sprayed the front of the car.  The windshield cracked and finally shattered as it was riddled with gunfire.  Clint scrambled to reach for his own weapons, but it was impossible as he tried to hold Lucky away from the danger.  The dog was shaking beneath him, and his own heart was thundering so fast he could hardly breathe.  He watched in anger and frustration as bullets ripped through the seats, the windows, _the_ _phone he’d just bought._   “Shit!”

The barrage of bullets suddenly stopped.  Clint chanced lifting his head, shards of glass and plastic tinkling as it fell off him.  Before he could even free himself from being wedged between the steering column and the front seats, there were black-clad men surrounding the truck.  One of them gripped the driver’s side door and yanked it open.  “Get out!  _Get out now!_ ”  Hands grabbed his arms and hair and yanked him violently loose.  Clint scrambled, trying to reach for one of his weapons – _why the hell didn’t I leave them closer?_ – but it was too late.  They had him now.  _They had him._

Clint howled his frustration as he was dragged onto the gravel and mud of the driveway.  He struggled and was awarded with a vicious kick to the midriff for it.  While he lay dazed and gasping, they patted him down and yanked the only weapon he had on him, the combat knife, out of his jeans.  Then they were hauling him up and dragging him away.  Clint blinked through tears in his eyes, fighting to focus, and caught the glint of a large gun in the dying afternoon sunlight.  “No,” he moaned, scrambling anew to get away from the guards pulling him along.  He wrenched around and looked back at the truck, where Lucky was barking like mad in the front passenger seat.  “No!  Lucky!  _No!_ ”

They didn’t listen to him, manhandling him violently around so that he couldn’t see the truck anymore.  He had a miserably clear view, however, of the HYDRA thug with the grenade launcher.  All it took was one second, and the missile careened forward to his left, violently cutting through the cold, still air.  Clint screamed in frustrated misery when he felt the truck explode behind him, fire and force knocking him to his knees.  “Get up,” snarled one of the men flanking him.  The man with the RPG launcher came closer, smiling heinously.  Clint fought again almost automatically because his heart and mind were lost to him.  And he fought to no avail.  _“Get up!”_

They weren’t gentle about hauling him to his feet and pulling him the rest of the way toward his old house.  As they crested the small hill just outside his property, he could see more men beyond.  Under the gray sky, the house just looked sad and pathetic.  Not for much longer.  The ones with him reloaded the grenade launcher.  “No, please…” Clint moaned.  Laura and Lila and Cooper were inside.  _They were inside._   “You goddamn son of a bitch!  _No!  Don’t!_ ”

There was nothing he could do to stop it.  The man pulled the trigger on the gun, and the missile went right to the house.  Clint’s heart stopped as it hit, ripping the front of the house apart before detonating inside.  _They were down below,_ he reasoned feverishly, watching as the fire consumed the structure.  _They were down there.  They’d be safe.  Please let them leave without looking…  Please…_

No.

Clint wanted to scream.  As he was shoved down the hill toward the cars gathered there, he saw Laura, Lila, and Cooper.  Obviously HYDRA had found and raided the bunker.  God, were they hurt?  He couldn’t see.  The kids were clinging to Laura, sobbing, and she was on her knees, eyes wide with terror.  Three men had their guns on them, rifles dangerously close.  Four more were flanking Clint.  And there was one further, dressed in a leather long coat with his back turned and hood up.  The figure was watching the house burn.  Clint caught Laura’s frightened gaze.  She frowned, pale and trembling, and gave a small shake of her head.  They were okay.  _They were okay._

For the moment.

“Did you think I wouldn’t be able to find you?”

As if there’d been any doubt as to who the figure was, it was dashed by that voice.  Duquesne spent a moment more still as a statue, observing as the flames devoured the old, moldy drywall and wood, as the smoke and embers rose into the gray sky.  Then he turned and pulled down his hood.  Clint couldn’t help his wince.  Obviously his run-in with Falcon’s jet pack had done significant damage.  He was a mess of blood and hideously burned skin.  Most of his hair was gone.  There were a few bandages here and there, soaked in red, but mostly he looked like the monster out of a splatter movie.  By all accounts, he should be dead.

But he wasn’t.  “Did you think that there was somewhere you could go, somewhere you could hide, where you wouldn’t be what I made you to be?”

“Let them go, Jacques,” Clint said.  “Please.  I’ll do anything!”

He was completely ignored.  “Did you think that I didn’t know about this place?  Where you hid all your blood money and weapons, like if you just locked it away, it wouldn’t mean anything.  You were so fucking _weak._ ”

The words burst from his mouth, heated and bitter.  He knew better than to argue with his enemies, but he couldn’t help himself.  Not after all of this.  Not with Laura and her kids held at gunpoint to be used as some sort of sick leverage in this long-promised battle.  “ _I’m_ weak?  All that stuff you told me about power and purpose and the strong devouring the unworthy.  All this time, I thought you were something, someone amazing.  I _idolized_ you, but I was stupid.  You weren’t anything that amazing at all.  You were just jealous of your brother.”  Clint gave a forced laugh.  “Ironic you and I should be so similar.”

Duquesne’s eyes flashed, but Clint could see it was a front.  He could also see, underneath the blood and the burns, that Duquesne was suffering.  He was in pain, and it was a primal thing, agony turning into anger and rage fueling energy.  It was sharp, how much he hurt, and it was cutting away all the bullshit, all the lies and shields and masks, and leaving behind a bitter, aging man who’d been forced to fall back into the service of his brother.  “At least I had the courage to take what I wanted!”

“Look what that got you,” Clint baited.  Maybe if he could keep Duquesne’s attention solely on him, he’d succumb to that madness Clint saw brewing and Laura and the kids could escape.  It was his only chance, his only way to control the situation.  His only weapon.  “You’re back where you started.  Twenty years in prison for being an arrogant bastard.  Like you said, twenty years _wasted,_ only to have to go crawling back to your brother for a second chance.  Now you’re exactly what your father made you to be.  Wolfgang von Strucker’s weapon.  The _lesser_ brother.  The one doing the dirty work.  Revenge?  He sent you to kill the Avengers, and you would have done it like a fucking drone whether or not I was there as an incentive.”

Duquesne roared in anger, and suddenly he was across the yard.  He moved with surprising speed given how wounded he was, and his sword came screaming free of his long coat.  Not his sword, Clint realized as the blade came to rest at his neck.  The one he’d taken from the battle before.  The one that had been down in the safe house.  “You think you can threaten me?  And you think dear Wolfgang knows or cares what I’m doing right now?  He doesn’t.  No one knows.  This is all you and me.  This is about revenge, and I’ll fucking _gut_ you before it’s done.”  Clint narrowed his eyes but stood his ground, even with the sword as close as it could possibly come to slitting his throat.  Duquesne’s nostrils flared in frustration.  “She came at me with this,” he hissed.  Clint’s eyes darted to Laura, but she was still cowering on the ground, holding her kids close.  “Stupid, don’t you think?  To come at a master swordsman with no training at all?”

Clint didn’t dare so much as move.  “Let them go.  You want revenge?  You want to fight me?  I’ll fight.”

Duquesne harshly shouted, “You never listen!  You think it’s that simple?  What did I tell you before?  You spread your darkness on them!”  The men cocked their guns and pressed closer.  “They’ll all fall.  All of them!  Everyone you care about now!”

Clint’s heart leapt painfully in his chest when Lila screamed, a rifle jabbed right into Laura’s face.  The little girl burrowed into Laura’s side, Laura who was terrified but not looking away.  Defiant.  The fire in her eyes gave Clint strength, strength to step forward.  “Somewhere under all your bullshit you were trained to fight honorably.  I know you were.  I know what your father respected, what his grandfather respected.”  A long line of arrogance from the dark ages of HYDRA’s defeat that extended back through World War II into the glory days of Germanic rule.  That was the history of the von Strucker family.  “Fight me now and get your revenge if you can.  You trained me to be like you, to be the best.  So let’s see it.  _Leave them out of it._ ”

Duquesne sneered.  For once, Clint was setting the terms of their interactions.  For once, he was the one making the rules, setting the context, _forcing_ the confrontation.  And (as he hoped) Duquesne was too proud and arrogant to walk away.  He stared Clint down a moment more, that same damn, critical stare he’d always had when Clint had been a kid.  Judging and coming to a disgusted conclusion.  Still, he elegantly spun the blade he held so that the hilt was against Clint’s body now instead of the edge.  Clint subtly drew a deep breath and took it.

The evening was silent save for the hissing and crackling of the fire and the children’s whimpering.  Clint tested the weight of the sword in his hand and found it as he’d remembered from before.  He’d never been as good with a blade as he was with a bow, but he could hold his own.  _Hurt like this, though?_   He didn’t want to acknowledge that thought.  At least Duquesne was just as bad off, maybe even worse.  That maniacal gleam to his eyes was disturbing and sent chills racing up Clint’s spine.  _Focus._   He needed to now.  More than ever before, he needed to sink into that quiet place inside him where the world fell away, where there was nothing but his heartbeat and his muscles and bones and the weight of his weapon.  More than ever before, he needed to make the kill.

Duquesne was battered and riled and in too much agony to have patience.  He attacked first with a roar.  Clint twisted to avoid the deadly strike, rolling on his heels and returning with a slash of his own.  The swords slammed together with a shriek.  He compensated for the force, digging his shoes into the mud for traction and pushing back with all he had.  Duquesne didn’t have the patience for this, either, and broke away, his sword shrill against Clint’s, and he whirled with another lightning-quick advance.  Clint dodged that, stepping to the side.  The next blow he blocked.  And the one after that he countered.  It went on and on, much like it had in Walter Murray’s field that dark night not long ago.  Fast moves.  Rushed breaths.  Pounding hearts.  Like before, Clint could barely keep up, even armed as he was now with a proper sword.  Duquesne was a bastard and a murderer and damn sadist, but he was far and away the best at what he did.  Even as injured as he was, he was beyond formidable.  Even though he was sloppy with pain and compromised with frustration and wild with anger, teeming and twisting with more emotion Clint had ever seen from him, he was seemingly unbeatable.  Clint felt himself losing ground.

He grimaced when he didn’t quite avoid a swipe in time, the sharp tip of the sword slicing through his coat and shirt across his chest.  The stinging pain wore at his already worn composure.  He tried to get to his feet, but he wasn’t fast enough.  Swordsman kicked at him, dropping him into the mud and gravel.  Clint scrambled upward, but he was pushed back, and Duquesne drove him down onto the ground.  Clint fell to his knees, his balance destroyed as more weight was placed onto his injured abdomen.  He had to fight not to crumple completely.  He felt Laura’s eyes on him, watching in horror, in awe, in _faith_.  She was afraid, and he could feel that as though it was a tangible force beating against his back, but more than that, she believed in him.  He needed to win.  If he didn’t, HYDRA would kill them, and he could _never_ let that happen.  However, he was wearing quickly now.  He’d never be good enough.  Never strong enough to win.  Never better than Jacques or Buck.  Never better than Barney.  _Never anything more than a killer for hire._

Duquesne’s blade was hard and unyielding against his, scraping down with the force of his attack toward the guard where it smacked firmly and pushed roughly.  Clint gasped, fighting to repel him, but he was coming from a position of weakness.  It was a contest of strength, pure and simple, and he was losing it.  His hand was weakening where he’d been shot the day before.  His muscles were burning.  Sweat stung in his eyes and fatigue from so many days of hell sucked away the last of his strength.  This was what he deserved, the world blackening around him, his body failing and his one link with anything good and pure slipping away.  This was his penance, cut down by the man who’d forged him.  He could hardly think.  He could hardly hear.  He could hardly…

_“Clint, get up!”_

Laura.  _He had to win._

With a cry of effort and frustration, he pulled strength from _somewhere_ and shoved back.  Duquesne was clearly surprised, eyes widening, backpedaling, sneer disappearing from his awful face.  Clint sprung to his feet, lunging forward and driving his enemy back.  “You murdered my brother!” he cried, years of unspent rage and grief turning his words as rough and unrestrained as his attacks.  “You killed him!”

“You coward!” Duquesne hissed.  “I went to jail for it, but _you’re_ the one with blood on your hands!  _You didn’t take the shot!_ ”

Clint howled with rage, swinging hard and fast.  He moved on instinct, letting every bit of what he’d learned from Duquesne guide his body, letting every moment of his training be a weapon against the man who’d trained him.  And he was.  He was lightning, a brilliant, murderous bolt of it, and he thrust and danced lightly in the mud and drove his opponent back.  Now Duquesne lost ground, scrambling to reclaim his advantage, but Clint was fleet and clever and refused to allow it.  He pushed him back closer and closer to the burning wreckage behind them, slashing and stabbing and swinging his blade.  The fire was hot and spreading to the remains of the barn and the shed.  Duquesne noticed that and how close he was to it, and for the first time since Clint had met him as a kid, he saw fear bright in his eyes.  Fear from being burned so badly before.  That was all it took.  Clint attacked in the split second Duquesne faltered.  He kicked hard, his shoe hitting Duquesne’s right wrist, and his sword went flying.  Disarmed, Duquesne tried to quickly scramble away, but it was too late.  Clint swept his legs right out from under him, and he went down with a cry.  Then he pointed his sword at him.

Everything went still.  The bloody, burned mess of a man beneath him was gasping for breath, eyes narrowed with hate.  Clint watched him, holding the tip of the blade right above Duquesne’s heaving chest.  With his hearing impaired, the world sounded wrong again, the distant roar of the flames, the shallow thrumming of his heart, the ghosts of the pasts screaming at him.  Duquesne glared at him.  “What are you waiting for, kid?”  He smiled, revealing reddened teeth.  Clint hesitated, repulsed and enraged.  The desire for vengeance of his own – for the life into which this man had lured him – was hot and acidic in his veins.  “Do it!”  He tightened his fingers around the sword hilt.  Since Barney had died, he’d killed so many people.  For money.  For other people.  For SHIELD.   For the good of the world.  Brushov and Rollins and Rumlow.  Aliens and monsters.  Enemies.

But he’d spared lives.  _Natasha._   He’d saved lives.  _Steve.  Their children._

Everything happened for a reason.

“No,” he gasped, leaning back.  “I’m not the man you made me be.  I’m not like you.  Not anymore.”

For a moment, the briefest fraction of a second, Duquesne – Strucker – whoever he was – looked relieved.  Then the spite, the ire and disgust, came rushing back.  He leaned up even though it was clearly torture to move.  “I was a fool to think I could teach someone like you anything.  You never learn.”  He glanced to his men.  _“Kill them!”_

_No!_

Before they could move, even pull the triggers of their guns, the fire finally reached the generator in the shed.  It and all of the spare fuel exploded with a tremendous bang, and the force of it knocked them all down.  Nearly everyone, that was, because Clint didn’t _let_ it topple him.  He was already moving, running, jumping, fighting.  _Killing._   To protect.  The sword sang as it sliced through the air, driving deep into the shoulder of the closest man who was trying to steady himself.  He went down with a cry.  Clint whirled, stabbing the one next to him.  In one smooth, swift motion, he caught the soldier’s handgun as it tumbled down.  He rolled, getting in between Laura and the rest of the men.  “Go!” he cried.  _“Run!”_

He couldn’t wait to see if they did, if Laura had tucked the children against her and fled.  He aimed and pulled the trigger on the gun, fast, as fast as he ever had.  Two more men went down.  He felt someone move to his left, felt because he couldn’t hear, and he spun on instinct.  The thug was already shooting, and Clint dove to the ground, ignoring the blast of pain.  He somersaulted, barely avoiding being riddled with bullets, and brought the gun up.  He shot the guy shooting at him before twisting his arm around to shoot the guy behind him.  It was faint, hardly anything at all, but his brain and body were moving faster than his damaged hearing, and he recognized the sound of the RPG launcher reloading before the last guy could fire.  One mighty leap had him mostly out of the way, not quite far enough that the impact of the grenade into the ground spared him entirely.  The gun went flying from his hand, but he clenched his fingers tight around the sword.  He gathered himself, ignoring the heat, the pain, and the vertigo, and ran at the soldier.  The man was still fumbling with the rocket launcher.  Foolish and stupid.  One quick thrust with the sword and he was dead.

Clint stood in the driveway, bathed in the flickering light of the fire, surrounded by the thugs he’d killed.  All of them.  All seven he’d dropped.  He couldn’t catch his breath, his heart pounding and pounding, the world spinning nauseatingly.  Something pierced the roar of his pulse and the hungry snapping of the blaze.  It sounded wrong, distant, difficult to localize, but he knew what it was instantly.  A woman screaming.

_Laura._

Terror turned his blood to ice, and he turned, picked up his fallen handgun, and ran the direction from which he thought it had come.  His legs were pumping, heart agonizingly still in his chest like not a beat could be spared until he found her.  It had come from his right, through the barren bushes and overgrown lawn, and he bounded over the uneven ground until he reached the old fence that was somehow still standing.  Laura was there, struggling as Duquesne, a bloody, vicious demon, grabbed her and yanked her away from the kids.  Lila shrieked.  “Run, baby!” Laura gasped, fighting against the madman.  “Run!  Run!”

 _“Laura!”_ Clint screamed.  He dropped the sword and brought the gun up, pointing it at Duquesne, but before he could get a clear shot…  _No._   Duquesne pulled Laura in front of him, an arm around her throat and his gun to her temple.  _No!_ Clint darted in front of the kids, one quick glance revealing they were unhurt, before turning his horrified eyes back to scene before him.  _No no no…_   “Let her go!”

Duquesne offered up a grotesque smile from over Laura’s shoulder.  “Here we are again.  Life and its goddamn ironies.”

She was stiff, terrified, eyes full of tears and desperation.  She was calm though, hands around Duquesne’s arm and pulling, eyes darting between Clint and her kids.  “Clint, please…”  He didn’t know what she was asking.  Him to shoot the man who held her hostage.  Him to save her children.  _Both._

“Let her go!” he seethed.  “Let her go now!”

“You need to earn it this time,” Duquesne declared.  He pushed the gun tighter to Laura’s head.  “Go on, kid.  Do it.  You want to save her?”  He smiled, cruel and uncaring how this ended.  “Shoot me.”

He aimed.  This time, he’d make the kill.  “Lila, Cooper, look away,” he warned quietly to the kids where they were cowering behind him.  “Look away.”  He exhaled, watching Laura squirm and praying she’d stop, be still, stay clear so he could _make the shot…_

He was Hawkeye.  He could do this.

Oddly enough, he ended up not needing to.

There was a loud, angry growl, and then a blur of gray and white shot across the field behind them.  Jaws snapped.  Ears were pressed back.  Lucky leapt and got Duquesne around the thigh, sinking his canines in deep and yanking back.  Duquesne howled in pain and shock, and Clint lost his shot.  Without thinking, he ran instead, barreling into the man, the dog, and Laura.  Laura screamed.  Duquesne yanked on the trigger.  The bullet thankfully went skyward as Clint wrestled with him.  Clint tried to get Laura out from between them, tried to get at the gun, not daring to risk a shot of his own, but Duquesne twisted his damaged hand before he could and his weapon tumbled into the grass.  He scrambled for the other man’s gun, which was far too close to Laura’s face.  He grabbed it, pushing it away.  Again Duquesne managed to fire, and the shot clipped Clint’s shoulder.  Clint grunted, and his arm nearly went numb.  Still, he got both his hands around Duquesne’s wrist, so he had enough leverage to shove the weapon aside.  Laura was free.  “Get away!  Go!”

She went.  The second he spent making sure was costly.  Duquesne kneed him in the midriff, and his stomach exploded in crippling pain from where he’d been stabbed before.  Clint gasped, choking for air, and that was all it took for his assailant to roll them and pin him.  He squirmed and struggled wildly as Duquesne pushed his face into the ground, mud splattering in his eyes and covering his mouth in a suffocating layer.  As injured as he was, Duquesne had him at his mercy yet again.  The gun went right into the back of his skull.  Clint kicked and bucked, but it was no use.  “And here we are again,” he commented lowly.  “Life and its goddamn ironies.”  Clint choked, squirming desperately.  “What are you now, huh, kid?  Huh?  What are you now?  What–”

A gun went off.

Again, it was to his left, so it didn’t sound right.  He felt the force more than heard it.  Something hot and heavy slumped over his back.  For a moment, he wondered if that was it, if he was drowning in the mud, sinking down.  Dying again.  But there was no pain, and the burning ache in his lungs was a sharp reminder to _breathe_.  That was fairly contradictory with getting killed, so he opened his eyes, planted his hands in the muck with great effort, and pushed himself up.

Duquesne’s dead body slumped to the side, bleeding from a hole in his chest.  Clint looked at that, wide-eyed and shocked, and then darted his eyes in front of him to Laura.  She lowered the gun, staring at the corpse herself in alarm.  Her face was white, and her hands trembled.  “Laura?” he asked softly.  “Laura, are you–”

She moved suddenly, reaching for him and dragging him up and away from the dead man.  She gasped a sob.  “Oh, my God, I shot him.  I shot – is he dead?  Are you okay?”  He took the gun from her before she dropped it.  “Clint,” she gasped around a sob.  “Clint!”  Her fingers were tight in his filthy coat, clinging hard and fast.

He didn’t answer her, blocking her view of Duquesne’s body.  Whether or not he was okay didn’t matter.  “Are _you_ alright?”  He lifted her chin with his fingers to see in her eyes.  “Laura–”

 _“Mommy!”_   Lila was wailing, screaming, sobbing as she flung herself at them.  Cooper was right behind her.  Clint gathered them against Laura, cocooning the kids between them, and pushed them all further and further away.  “Mommy!  Mommy!”

“Are you alright?” Laura gasped, holding her children close.  She was weeping.  “Are you?  Are you?”

“Are they dead?” Cooper whispered as he burrowed in between Laura and Clint.  He looked up at Clint with watery eyes, and Clint nodded.  Then he buried his face in Clint’s stomach and cried.

The small family stayed out in the field for a moment, breathing, reveling in the fact that they were all okay.  Then Clint peeled himself away.  “Stay here,” he softly commanded, and Laura nodded fearfully.

He jogged back to the body.  It took a deep breath to manage it, but he knelt and pressed his fingers to Duquesne’s throat just to be sure.  No pulse.  He was dead, his burned face locked in a perpetual grimace, his eyes wide open and lifeless.  Clint didn’t even close them.  He stared in disbelief at this man, this demon from his past.  _It’s over._ It didn’t seem real, but it was.  Finally he felt free of it all.  Barney’s death.  The life he’d led.  The sins he’d committed.  A rebirth of sorts.  _It’s over._

Lucky came over, panting and wagging his tail.  He was positively covered in ash.  He must have jumped through one of the broken windows in the truck before it had exploded.  He sat beside Clint where he crouched, licking his face despite the mud.  Clint gasped, the wet tongue on his cheek pulling him from his thoughts.  “You really are a lucky dog,” he murmured appreciatively, petting Lucky’s filthy coat.  “I thought it was an awful name, but now…”  _Everything happens for a reason._ Lucky licked him a couple more times.  _Thank God for you._   He hugged the dog closer, joy making his heart quake, before rising to his feet again.  He gathered the other gun, tucked it into his pants, and retrieved the fallen sword.

Then he stood over his mentor’s body, staring at him.  Not thinking.  Not feeling anything aside from relief.  Knowing the truth.  “You want to know what I am?” he softly asked.  There was no answer of course, not that it mattered.  “I’m alive.”  He took a deep breath and drove the sword into the earth beside the corpse.  It wobbled there a moment before going still.  It was sleek and beautiful but not what he needed anymore.  “And I’m an Avenger.”

He walked away, back to the family he’d found, and lifted Lila into his arms.  She clung to his neck, burying her face into his shoulder, and Cooper took his other hand.  Laura looked at him and smiled through her tears.  He smiled back.  “Let’s go.”


	18. Chapter 18

Sam was just about to hop into the shower when there was a knock at his door.  He sighed, donning his robe and limping out of his bedroom to the front of his suite.  He opened the door.  “Man, seriously?”

It was Steve, and he looked… sheepish.  Embarrassed.  Tired, too, and still a little pale, still recovering from having almost died yesterday.  He was mostly hale.  Mostly.  It was pretty damn remarkable, how fast he’d gotten better once the antiserum had expunged the alien virus from his body.  The super soldier serum, cleansed and restored, had kicked into high gear and had brought him back from the brink, healing his damaged lungs and heart as well as his other organs.  Now he just seemed fatigued but generally no worse for the wear.  It was _more_ than remarkable.  It was amazing and astounding and a goddamn blessing.  Sam couldn’t quite believe it.

 But believe it he had to, because Steve was right there, grimacing and smiling at the same time.  “Mind if I stay here for a bit?”

“Uh…  I guess not.  Wait.  Should I be slamming the door in your face?”

“I don’t think so?”

“Where’s Natasha?”

He sighed.  He was dressed in dark gray track pants and a light gray hoodie.  Captain America wearing a hoodie.  That, too, would be beyond belief if it wasn’t right in front of his eyes.  “She’s alright.  I just, uh…  I wanted some time away for a second.”  That didn’t sound like Steve.  Sam folded his arms over his chest.  “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”  Steve winced again.  “I can leave.  Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine.  Come on.”  Sam managed a smile and opened the door a little wider to let Steve through.  Sam saw he had a folder and a StarkPad in one hand.  There was a pen clipped to the top of the papers.  His brow furrowed.  “You have the look of a man fearing for his life.”

Steve flushed.  “It’s not that bad,” he assured.  “She’s just…  She’s worried about me.  Not that she has any reason to be, and I understand why, believe me, I do, but…”  He looked genuinely guilty, though whether over the ordeal through which they’d all suffered because of him (not that that was his fault, of course) or because he’d run from his wife’s obvious smothering Sam couldn’t say.  Both, in all likelihood.  “Well, she’s…  She’s _fussing_.”  Sam couldn’t help his laugh.  “And she’s a bit moody.”  Sam laughed louder.  “Shut up.”

“Nope,” Sam said.  _Black Widow fussing._ He could almost picture it, that icy glare she had down so well focused on Steve the second he tried to tell her to stop, that he didn’t need to sleep or rest or lay around.  _“Let me take care of you or you’ll regret it.”_ Hormones and fire and wrath.  “Still as funny as it was before.”

After a moment where it seemed like he was remembering something he’d forgotten, Steve rolled his eyes a little and shook his head.  “It’s even worse than that.  She’s nesting, too.”

“What the hell is that?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.  It’s something women about to give birth do apparently.  I looked it up.  They clean and get things ready and obsess over everything.  Nat spent months ignoring it all, and now she’s cramming everything into a matter of hours.  There’s loads of baby stuff all over.  I don’t even know what half of it is or does.”  Sam chuckled again, and Steve smiled, flustered and bewildered.  “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not.”  He was.

Steve sighed, clearly at a complete loss.  “I don’t know.  I just don’t want to be in her way right now.”

Sam chuckled again, and Steve smiled feebly, but the more they talked, the more Sam realized he really couldn’t deny it: there was something off about his friend.  Steve was nervous, distracted, jittery even.  Maybe it was a residual effect of the disease or the treatment that had saved him.  A shock to his spirit and heart as much as it had been to his body.  He’d seen soldiers suffer from something like this after trauma, being hypervigilant or easily excitable.  Another facet of PTSD.  He’d been so worn down and tired, in shock himself after everything that had happened, that he honestly couldn’t remember if Steve had been like this earlier.  Since Steve had _walked_ (miracles upon miracles) out of the infirmary that morning, the two of them hadn’t had much time together.  Once it had been obvious that Steve was going to make a full recovery, that the danger had truly and completely passed, each of the Avengers had fairly well collapsed.  Thor hadn’t even made it to his suite, falling into such a deep slumber in one of the chairs in Steve’s room that no one had had the heart (or the physical strength) to rouse him.  Sam himself had had his leg tended by Bruce before shuffling off in a daze to bed.  He’d awoken, taken a ridiculously quick shower, scarfed down some food, and promptly gone back to bed.  Now he was here, about to take an equally ridiculously long shower, and Steve looked like he wanted to crawl out of his skin.  “Call me psychic, but did you want to talk about something?”

Steve jerked, shifting his weight.  “No,” he said.  “No, it’s fine.  I’m fine.  But do you mind if I do some work here?”

“Work?”

Steve lifted his files and tablet.  “My ulterior motive.  I didn’t want to do this around her, and I need to finish it right away.”

Sam couldn’t follow this random stream of conversation.  “What work could you possibly have?”

Steve handed him the StarkPad before heading inside Sam’s living area.  He sat gingerly on one of the practically unused sofas, setting his folder on the coffee table.  He opened it up, and inside there were tons of papers.  Sam glanced them over, again struggling to make sense of what he was seeing.  It looked like documents pertaining to a house.  He lifted the StarkPad, which had images of the home in question, and he scrolled through them blankly.  Then it came back to him, all but forgotten with the chaos of what had happened.  “This one of the houses you went to see before…”  Now it was his turn to wince.  “Before Geneva?”

“That’s the one we want,” Steve clarified as he grabbed the pen.  His eyes narrowed in concentration as he quickly read through the papers, signing a few at the bottom.  “Well, the one I want.  Nat said she didn’t care as long as it made me happy.”  Sam looked the house over.  It was nice, very much so, large and a bit woodsy and…  He knew Steve pretty well, despite having been his friend for only six months, and somehow this place seemed like a home he’d want.  Private.  Large but not garish.  Simple, practical, but comfortable.  This house seemed like him.  “What?  You don’t think it’s right?”

Sam didn’t know what surprised him more, the fact that Steve cared enough about his opinion to be concerned with it or the fact that they were talking about _this_ only a day after Steve had nearly died.  “No, it’s…”  It struck him all anew.  Steve was going to be a father (in a matter of days in all likelihood).  He was moving out of the Tower with Natasha.  He was buying a house for his family.  The twins would be born soon.  That had been a pressing, grievous concern before, but it had been abstract in a way.  Now it was front and center.  Inexplicably Sam felt warm and sad at the same time.  And suddenly he was pretty sure what was bothering Steve.  “It’s perfect.”

Steve was visibly relieved, smiling but still not quite himself.  Not confident.  Eager, but afraid.  This was different from when he’d been shattered after leaving Natasha when SHIELD had fallen.  Not as devastated or damaged, but still vulnerable and shaken.  Even before his wedding he hadn’t been this uncertain.  He’d been nervous, but not antsy.  Sure of himself.  Sam handed him back the tablet, and he swiped through the pictures for a second, looking over them again although Sam was sure with his memory he had every detail down.  “Okay.  Okay, that’s good.  I’ve got enough cash in savings to afford it, believe it or not, but there’s still all kinds of things that need doing.  I need to fill out all the paperwork that Pepper put together for me.  To buy it, I mean.  The house.  But I didn’t want her to see.  Not Pepper.  I mean Natasha.  I didn’t want Natasha to see.  I kinda want it to be a surprise, you know?  Since…  Well.  She shouldn’t have to worry about this.  She’s been through enough.”  He gave another pathetic attempt at a smile.  “Hard for her to nest without a place to do it in, so I thought I’d take care of that at least.  Though after seeing all the baby things people have gotten us, I’m wondering if the place I picked is going to be big enough.”  That wasn’t entirely a joke.  He really was worried about that, as irrational as it was.  “I’ve never seen so many things, Sam.  She’s got it all sorted, a pile for one twin and another for the other.  I think Pepper might’ve helped her, but she did most of that herself.  She seems to know what she’s doing, which is good, because I haven’t got a clue and–”

“Steve, dude, take a breath.”

Steve stopped himself, eyes widening like he hadn’t realized he was getting himself worked up.  He nodded, setting down the pen before rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes.  “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Sam assured.  Realizing his plans for a shower needed to be shelved for at least the time being, he sat next to Steve.  Steve sniffled and forced himself to lean back, like it was a monumental effort to relax for even a second, like his nerves weren’t firing right and his muscles were wound too tight and weren’t coordinated.  Like he was bordering on a panic attack or a complete breakdown.  “You look a weird cross between totally jacked and totally wrecked.” 

Scrubbing a hand down his face, Steve grunted a chuckle.  “Kinda feel it, too.”

“I can see that.  You want to talk about it?”

For someone who tended to internalize his pain and grief and fears and, well, pretty much _everything_ he thought would be at all burdensome to anyone else, Steve surprisingly nodded.  “Not with Nat,” he said quietly.  “She’s been through enough.”

“That’s not your fault,” Sam said firmly.

“Debatable.”  Steve’s eyes clouded and were suddenly unreadable.  “And irrelevant.  It still happened.”  Sam watched him work through his thoughts.  He wrung his hands together in his lap a moment, clearly trying to muster up the courage to say what he thought he needed to say.  For his own part, Sam didn’t push.  Their friendship was well beyond either of them having to coax the other into being honest.  Back when they’d been chasing Bucky across Europe, it had been difficult to get through Steve’s defenses.  That wasn’t so much the case anymore.  Steve knew what he needed to say, what talking to someone he trusted like he trusted Sam would do for him.  That was why he was here if he would admit it to himself.  So he sighed, finally letting himself go limp, and tipped his head back onto the couch.  “I’m such a hypocrite, Sam.”

“Doubt it, but I’ll humor you.  Tell me why.”

Steve glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes.  “Nat…  I’ve been telling her for months, ever since I found out she was pregnant, that she could be whatever she wanted to be.  That she could be an excellent mother.  She was afraid and I just kept swearing to her that it would be fine, that when the time came she’d know what to do and I’d be there with her and everything would be okay.  But… I don’t _know_ that.  And I don’t know if I can do this.”  He gave a hoarse laugh.  “It’s gonna be soon.  She told me she thought she was going into labor while I was sick, and I thank God it didn’t happen, but it’s going to, one way or another, and I don’t know what to do.  I don’t know how to be a father.  I didn’t have one when I was growing up.  Buck’s was always around, of course, but there was distance there, and it’s not the same.  I don’t know the first thing about babies or kids, and maybe that’s normal.  I figure nobody’s really prepared to become a parent.  All of this just sort of happened, and that’s okay.  It’s scary, but I can figure it out.  I hope.”  He gave a weak grin.  “But with what happened…  I can’t ever do this to her or them again.  I can’t put them in danger or hurt them like this again.  I can see what it did to her, Sam.  She’s hiding it, but I can see.  I don’t even remember most of it.”

Sam winced.  “You don’t?”

Steve shook his head, a mixture of pain and regret swirling in his eyes.  “Everything’s really… foggy.  Back before the serum, I used to have nightmares now and again, and when you wake up, some things stick with you, you know?”  Sam nodded.  “That’s what it’s like.  Some things I think I remember.  I remember you guys trying to save me.  I remember getting worse, waking up a few times.  I wanted to make sure someone was going to take care of Natasha.  Clint or Tony.  I think Tony was with me a lot.  And Thor.  I remember parts of… of being frozen.”  He tried to suppress a shudder but didn’t quite succeed.  “And I remember Nat being there, being with me no matter what.  But the specifics…  I don’t know.  Like I said, it’s like waking up from a bad dream.”  He grunted ruefully.  “It’s crazy, but somehow I think I’m the one walking away from this the most unscathed.”

Sam had to agree with that.  It was a blessing Steve didn’t remember how much he’d suffered.  A blessing and a miracle.  He’d witnessed firsthand how hard Steve had been impacted by what he’d endured at the hands of the STRIKE Team, how he’d deteriorated emotionally while they’d hunted Barnes.  Maybe it was selfish to think it, and maybe this was all bothersome and disconcerting to Steve since he obviously didn’t know exactly what had gone on and what had been done to save him, but Sam found it to be nothing but a relief.  “That’s what’s got you upset?  That you can’t remember?”

Steve sighed.  “That’s one thing, but it’s not _the_ thing, I guess.  Don’t get me wrong; I get the feeling it might be just as well that I don’t.”  He quirked a feeble smile that Sam returned.  “I just…”  He closed his eyes and shook his head.  “I’ve only ever wanted to do what’s right.  For the longest time, I thought that was serving my country, doing what I could to protect people.  Being Captain America.  Being a SHIELD agent and being an Avenger.  And it was.  Now…  I don’t know how to be a father, but I’m pretty sure that what happened here _can’t ever_ happen again.”  His face fractured in pain and disappointment, like a man stuck with the dawning realization that something he’d desperately wanted was sadly impossible to attain.  “I can’t be both things.  I can’t be a good father and be Captain America.  I almost died, almost left Nat to raise our kids alone.  I know what it’s like to grow up without a father, and I don’t want that for my children, Sam.  I don’t know if I can be Captain America and still be–”

“Steve, stop.”

Steve did stop.  He looked up, blue eyes wide with dismay.  Sam could practically feel his insecurity.  He was nearly vibrating with it, and that was so unlike him.  Again, all the cool confidence of Captain America was stripped away leaving a young man struggling to find his way through uncharted territory.  And Sam didn’t exactly count himself as a worthy guide here or even a knowledgeable one.  Who was he to give advice?  He’d never had a steady relationship with a woman, let alone married one, let alone faced impending (like, _seriously_ impending) fatherhood.

But he was Steve’s best friend.  Now more than ever, he was sure of that.  “Did she ask you to quit?”

Steve’s brow furrowed in confusion.  “No.  No, of course not.”

Sam didn’t think so.  “Do you think she wants to?”

He thought about that a moment.  Then he shrugged helplessly.  “I don’t know.  Sometimes…  I know Natasha like I know myself, better than I know myself sometimes, but there are other times when I can’t read her.  I don’t know what she wants.  All I know is before I got sick, she was the one who couldn’t get a handle on this.  Now she’s so calm, so ready, and I feel like the world’s biggest coward.”  He sighed again.  “I would if she asked me to.  I would.”  He repeated that like he was trying to convince himself.  “I kept telling her to accept that things were changing, and I can’t even…”

Sam leaned back.  “I think Natasha’s a lot stronger than we all give her credit for.  And I think she married you knowing the risks.  I seem to recall her vowing to help you carry the weight of the world.”  Steve barked a rough laugh.  “And I also seem to recall her swearing she’d always fight right alongside you.  It’s like I said before.  This is an adjustment for you and one for her.  You guys can figure it out.  I know you can.  Just because this happened doesn’t mean what you want is wrong and it doesn’t mean you can both be a father and Captain America.”  Steve winced anew like he wanted to believe that but just couldn’t.  Sam shook his head, not wanting to ask the question but knowing it needed to be asked.  If Steve was having doubts, he needed to face them no matter how much the consequences scared them.  “I think the real question is actually this one: do _you_ want to quit?”

Again, Steve thought about that a moment.  But it was only a moment, despite feeling like much longer.  “No.”  _Thank God._ Steve exhaled slowly, and his voice turned more determined.  “No, I don’t want to.  I thought…  Family.  Stability.  I thought back before the ice that the war would just _end_ and I could have those things.  Go home and get married and have kids.  But the guy who went into the ice seventy years ago didn’t know the things I know now.  The war’s never going to end, is it?  There’s always going to be someone trying to hurt innocent people.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed sadly, knowing where Steve was going with this.  “Probably.”

“The world’s always going to need the Avengers.”

“Yeah.”  There was no getting around that.  If they’d learned anything in the last six months it was that HYDRA wasn’t going to just lie down and die.  Evil would endure.  This wasn’t a fight that had an endpoint.  The world needed the Avengers, and the Avengers needed Captain America.

Steve shook his head.  He seemed calmer all of the sudden.  Coming to terms with something.  He looked down at his hands where they were folded in his lap, the platinum of his wedding band glinting as he shifted his fingers together.  “The thing is…  I don’t think I could lay down my shield and still be a good father.  At least, I couldn’t be the father I want to be.  I want my children to know how important it is to stand up for what you believe in.  To protect people who can’t protect themselves.  If I quit, I’d be a liar.”

Sam cocked an eyebrow at that.  “Don’t know if I’d go that far.”

“Well, a hypocrite.  Again.”

“Maybe.”

Steve looked up at him, lips pressed together in a smile.  “Guess I know the answer then, huh.  Quitting doesn’t make me into the father I want to be.”  He said that in a sort of resigned way, maybe a little rueful and amused at his own round-about manner of coming to that conclusion.  “Just gotta make sure I don’t get my butt handed to me by a bunch of alien germs again.  Or by anything else.”

Perhaps that was Steve’s method of admitting he needed to be more careful, maybe _not_ throw himself so directly into the line of fire all the time.  It might be all they could take from this freak accident.  He was Captain America, and that meant taking the hits few others could.  That was what the serum allowed him to do, why he fought with a shield rather than a weapon.  He was there to defend and protect, and that necessarily meant he might get hurt.  Sam had known about Captain America, of course, about the legend and the rumors and the public persona.  He’d never realized how much of Captain America was Steve Rogers himself, how much Steve put himself out there to be knocked down.  That was the way it was, and Steve was starting to see how much it hurt everyone who loved him.

A line needed to be drawn, and he knew that now.  So Sam smiled and nudged him, relieved to feel that it was, once again, akin to pushing a brick wall of strength.  “That’s why you have a team.”  _Friends.  Brothers._   “People to watch your butt while you’re out doing your hero thing.”  Steve laughed.  It was good to hear it.  “I know you’ve been taking care of Natasha since, well, since she got pregnant, telling her that she can do this.  For what it’s worth, I think you need to hear it, too.”

“What’s that?”

“That you’re going to be an excellent dad.”

Steve looked surprised a moment before his face colored with a blush.  “Think so?”

“Dude, you’re Captain America.  There isn’t much that can compete with that.  You’re going to have to fake being an average joe so none of the other dads feel bad at soccer practice.  Probably would help if you didn’t look so like… you.”

Steve looked down at his hoodie, which was (again) a little on the small side (how the hell he’d managed to find a _hoodie_ that was too small was probably not worth wondering about).  “What is it with everyone and my shirts?”

What was it Stark had said?  _Adorably clueless._ Sam had to admit it was true, at least about this.  His inner manliness shriveled just a little.  “Have your wife explain it to you.”  Steve laughed again, punching Sam in the bicep this time.  Sam punched him back again.  They sat in companionable silence for a moment, and Sam watched Steve figure it all out.  The first part of it, anyway.  That he could manage this.  As huge and terrifying as it was to juggle fatherhood with being an Avenger, Steve would do it just fine.  So would Natasha.  They had each other, and they had a team to help them.  They’d all be fine.  They’d gotten through so much together already.  Together they could face anything.

Steve’s eyes focused after that, and his smile was nothing but genuinely appreciative.  “Thanks for letting me talk.”

“That’s what friends are for, right?  You tell me about all your worries, and I make ’em seem like nothing.”

Steve nodded to that.  “Yeah.  And thanks for saving my life,” he added.  “Again.”  Sam was about to argue that he hadn’t, that he really wasn’t responsible and the scientific super geniuses and gods and spies had truly done it, but Steve was already going on.  “Don’t even.”

“What?”

“Tell me you had nothin’ to do with it.”  Now it was Steve who gave him a knowing look.  “Guess we both have our insecurities.”

“Guess so.”

“Unwarranted?”

“Definitely.”  Steve smiled, and Sam did, too, and they sat in silence a moment more, spending a moment doing nothing but wool-gathering and appreciating how far they’d come in a such a short time.  Captain America and Falcon.  Sam still liked the sound of that.  The super soldier serum was certainly important, just as much as Stark’s tech and Banner’s smarts and Thor’s raw power.  Just as much as Natasha’s training and Clint’s expert eye.  But those weren’t the things that made heroes.  He was realizing that more and more every day.

When the silence went on too long, he stood with a groan and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his robe.  “You want some pizza?”  He took in Steve’s pallor and slightly bent form anew and then amended his offer.  “Unless you want to go back and sleep.  It’s kinda late.”

Steve leaned forward and took up his pen again.  “No, pizza sounds good.  Nat’s been kinda hard to sleep with, and I’m… too wired.”  He gave a sloppy smile, still embarrassed but vastly more relaxed.

Sam smiled.  “Alright.  JARVIS?”

“Right away, Mr. Wilson,” the AI responded.

“If it’s cool with you, I’m gonna go take my shower.”

Steve nodded.  Sam watched him go back to his paperwork, reading through the pages so fast it seemed like he wasn’t actually digesting anything at all.  Sam knew better.  He signed the bottom of another page and dated it before flipping to the next in the pile.  Seeing that he was okay – _he’s okay, really he is_ – Sam turned to head back to his bedroom.

He got about halfway there before Steve’s quiet voice stopped him.  “Sam.”  Sam turned and saw his friend’s eyes were firmly on him, and where they’d been stormy and unsettled with emotion and restless energy before, now they were cool again.  Troubled, but strong.  Steve waited a moment, like he was wondering whether or not he wanted to continue.  “Was he alright?”

He supposed he should have expected this.  Steve admitting that he didn’t really remember the last few days had momentarily quieted his worries, but it was unlikely the topic – _this_ topic – would never come up.  He sighed, appraising his friend.  “Steve…”

“I know he saved my life, too,” Steve said.  He looked crestfallen.  “I pieced that together on my own.  I asked Nat, but she won’t tell me anything more, and I…  I don’t want to press her.”

“But you’ll press me.”  It wasn’t an accusation but rather resignation.

Steve winced.  “Please.  I need to know if he’s alright.  I need to know where he went.”

Sam stared at his friend, one of the truest he ever had, and he didn’t know what to say.  What to think or feel.  As childish and petty as it was, he felt a little jealous.  That had been in the back of his heart this whole time, he realized then, persistent and irritating.  Insecurities, again.  But he couldn’t deny that part of him resented Barnes for still having this connection to Steve, this connection that Sam wasn’t sure he deserved anymore.  At that moment, while he watched Steve sitting on his couch with eyes that were fever bright again and a body tense and ready to do _anything_ to save his friend no matter how weak and weary he might still be, he couldn’t deny how angry it made him.  Barnes brought this level of loyalty out in Steve.

And Steve brought so much loyalty out in Sam.  He couldn’t lie.  “I don’t know.  He… he’s messed up, Steve.”  That was the only way he could describe it.  To Fury and Tony.  Here and now.  “He’s lost.”

Steve had clearly been hoping for something else.  And he’d known better, of course, but there was no denying the disappointment in his eyes.  “But he came back.”

Loyalty could only take him so far.  He couldn’t tell him just how hard it was to convince Barnes to do that.  “Yeah, he did.”

Steve’s expression fell further, and now there was hurt there.  “And then he just left again.  He’s remembering who he was…”  _Who I am._   It was unsaid but so very obvious.  “And he ran.”  He looked away.  There might have been a glitter of pained, frustrated tears, and he might have averted his gaze to hide them.  Might have.  When he turned back, though, it was with a sigh and a set jaw.  “I have to find him.”

There was darkness there.  Just how far Steve might go for Bucky.  A thousand unpleasant thoughts flashed through Sam’s head, things he _knew_ Steve would _never_ do but things he just couldn’t shake.  Steve leaving Natasha and the children to save Barnes.  Steve sacrificing himself for Barnes’ sake.  Steve taking on the whole world, allies and enemies alike, if he had to _to protect Barnes_.  Maybe not right now, but it felt imminent somehow, like that was the only way this could end.  The Winter Soldier was their enemy, and no matter how much he wanted to, Steve couldn’t just make that disappear.  Howard Stark’s murder was one of dozens, if not _hundreds_ , of assassinations he’d performed for HYDRA.  The damage he’d caused was immeasurable, and not everyone would simply forgive that because of the extenuating circumstances.  Stark was right.  They could feel sorry for him all they wanted, but it didn’t change the fact that he was a cold-blooded killer.  He’d have to answer for that eventually.  And if Steve knew how Barnes had _walked away_ in the face of the knowledge that he was dying…  Sam wouldn’t do that to him, but damn if it wasn’t hard to be quiet about it.  “Cap, come on.”

“Sam, I have to.  He’s not beyond saving.  He needs–”

“You let him go before.  Maybe it would be best to do it again, at least for a little while.”  That pained expression intensified.  “He’s remembering, yeah, but he’s trying to make sense of it.  And I know you want to help him.  I wanted to, too.  It was hard to stand there and listen to him suffer through it and not know what to do to make it better, and I don’t even know him.  But there was a good reason you let him go, Steve.  He’s not…”  Barnes was right.  He wasn’t Steve’s Bucky.  Not right now, anyway.  Maybe not ever again.  “He’s not who you want him to be.  You can’t just get him back.”

Now the wetness in Steve’s eyes was undeniable.  “I owe him more than just letting him go again.”

“If you respect him, you need to honor his choice,” Sam responded firmly.  “This was his way of protecting you, you and Nat and the twins.”  He wasn’t sure about that.  He wanted to be, so he kept going.  “He wanted to keep you safe, keep his distance, and maybe that’s the best any of us can do right now.”

Steve stared at him, and again Sam could see him figuring it out, working it through, trying to come to terms with the truth.  It was a lot to ask.  To come so close to having Bucky back, if only for a moment, and then having to let that all go once more.  Sam sighed.  “Steve, he came back to save you so you could _be_ the father you want to be.  He wanted to give your kids _you_ , maybe the only thing he can give them.  So please…  Let it go for now and just appreciate it.  If you want, I’ll…  I’ll keep looking for him.”  _What the hell am I promising?_   Steve’s eyes immediately lit up, though, and he couldn’t stop himself.  “I’ll keep hunting down leads.  Keep an eye out for him.  Look through the old files we found and see if there’s anywhere else he might go.  See if I can find him.  And maybe you and I together can bring him back, okay?  But not right now.  You have enough on your plate.  Just concentrate on running the team and having your kids.  And getting back on your feet, first and foremost.  Alright?”

Maybe it was an empty promise.  He’d do it, of course, but what _could_ he do?  It was the same thing as it always had been.  If Barnes didn’t want to be found, it was going to be damn hard to find him.  It was a minor miracle they’d been able to locate him this time.  Still, Steve’s face loosened from its tense expression, and the same grin crept back onto his face.  He was so grateful.  “Thanks, Sam.  I appreciate that.”

“You got it.”  He didn’t feel good about this (well, he felt great about making Steve feel better, but that was about it).  This wasn’t that simple, and it wasn’t at all safe.  Stirring a damn hornet’s nest.  But he’d do anything to give the twins their father, as well, and if this brought Steve some sense of peace and closure enough that he could live happily out from under HYDRA’s shadow as much as possible, he was more than willing.  So he smiled, grabbed the remote from the coffee table, and tossed it at his friend.  “Now buy your house and find something to watch on TV.  March Madness is probably over, but maybe there’s highlight reel playing.  And get us a couple of beers from the fridge.”

“Since when do you give me orders?” Steve asked with a laugh.

“Since you owe me forever.”

“Then aye-aye, sir.”

Sam grinned, happy to see Steve happy, and went to take his shower.  That niggling sense of foreboding that had bothered him before Steve had gotten sick…  That the worst hadn’t happened yet.  It was still there.  And it had a form now.  A reason.  _Barnes._   One way or another, everything would lead back to him.  He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, given what he knew now of the man intertwined with the Winter Soldier.  All he knew for sure was, wherever he was and whatever he did, Steve would find him someday.  His faith was implacable.  No matter what, that would hold firm.  Steve would stand firm as Bucky’s friend.

And no matter what, Sam would stand with him.

* * *

The next morning was cheery, and, as strange as it was, everything felt beautiful and new.  Like sunlight spreading through the receding clouds of a stormy sky, the day was bright and surreal, the world emerging from darkness to embrace a fresh day full of promise.

Tony groaned and rolled away from windows, pulling his duvet high up and over his head and burying his face into the pillows.  “JARVIS, what the hell…” he groaned.

“Good morning, sir,” JARVIS responded _annoyingly_ pleasantly.  “May I help you?”

“Ugh…  Close the blinds.”

“Ignore that, JARVIS.”  Pepper’s soft, commanding voice echoed across their spacious bedroom.  Tony lowered the duvet just enough to crack open one eye and peek out.  She was emerging from the master bathroom, dressed in a pair of black jeans and a white blouse with her hair up in an elegant, smooth pony tail and her make-up absolutely perfect.  Fixing her earring, she strolled right over to their bed.

Tony pulled the blanket back up and rolled back away from her, determined not to be swayed by even her (and how absolutely breath-taking and luminous she looked).  “Too early,” he complained.

“It’s not,” she insisted gently.  “It’s ten o’clock.”  Her fingers found their way into his hair, gently combing despite the outrageous case of bedhead he knew he had.  “Time to get up.”

“Nope.  Definitely not.”

“Yes.  _Definitely_ yes.  You’ve been sleeping for more than twelve hours.”  Her hands turned a little more insistent as she pulled the duvet away from him.  Without the protection of the covers, the sun hit him straight in the face again, and he winced.  Twelve hours sounded about right, and that was on top of the seven or eight hours he’d slept yesterday after they’d saved Steve’s life.  He’d needed it, no doubt about that.  He’d even been blessed with a deep and dreamless slumber, one not plagued by nightmares new or old.  As peaceful as he’d had in years, in fact, and that was odd considering all the trauma of the last few days.  He vaguely recalled waking for a little while, eating a quick dinner that Pepper had nicely put before him, Pepper getting him into the shower, Pepper getting him into pajamas, Pepper getting him back into bed and holding him tight and kissing him and kissing him and promising him that everything was alright now…  And it was alright, wasn’t it?  Rogers was fine.  Romanoff hadn’t gone into labor without him there.  The twins were healthy and about ready to come into this world.  Everyone was safe, even Barton (wherever he was – apparently he was still being rather cryptic about his situation).  Swordsman and his men were dead.  And the Winter Soldier was gone again.  So everything was fine.  Natasha had even forgiven him for nearly getting her husband killed not once but twice.  Everything was _fine._

He didn’t feel it, though.  He wanted to, but he couldn’t.  Therefore waking up and rejoining the world was a decidedly unpleasant prospect.  It would take too much energy _and_ too much emotional fortitude.  He liked living in this daze where he didn’t really have to think or interact with anything or anyone.  Pepper was persistent, though.  Bless her for that.  Had she not been, he didn’t know where he’d be in life.  Her soft palms cupped his face.  Despite the mess he probably looked (and the fact he hadn’t brushed his teeth and his mouth tasted like absolute swill), she tenderly lifted his chin to kiss him.  “Come on.  It’ll be alright.”

_Right._

He let her drag him out of bed and send him off to the shower.  He went through that in the same thoughtless daze, letting the scalding hot water soothe a body that still ached despite all the rest, easing knots and tension from his muscles.  When the bathroom had steamed up into a veritable sauna, he stepped out, dried off, and stood at the vanity.  His reflection looked like him but… not.  He didn’t know why.  He’d been through plenty of life-altering events before.  Losing his parents.  Afghanistan.  Nearly dying from the palladium poisoning.  New York.  God, New York.  And then nearly losing Pepper.  He hadn’t even been the one most affected by this, not by a longshot, but he felt changed and out of his element.  Pissed off at that, he sighed and set to shaving off the beard he was practically sporting and trimming up his goatee.  He brushed his teeth and made himself appear more like normal.  His eyes still seemed hooded and closed off, even to him, like even _he_ couldn’t tell how he felt.  That was probably the case.

Pepper came inside bearing a pair of his jeans and a blue long-sleeve shirt.  She set them to the glimmering granite, watching him finish with his routine with a soft smile on her pink lips.  “Do you want to talk about whatever’s bothering you?”

He hadn’t told her about Barnes, about what Barnes had been doing.  Dredging up ghosts.  He couldn’t bear to right now.  He just looked down, ashamed for reasons he didn’t begin to understand, and shook his head.  Pepper’s concern was practically a tangible thing, as warm and pressing as the lingering steam, and she came closer.  “Whatever it is, it’s not your fault.”  He closed his eyes, for once absolutely bereft of anything to say, good or bad.  Again her cool, soft hands took his face.  She swept her thumb over his newly smooth cheek, staring into his eyes.  “You need to forgive yourself, Tony.  And you need to give yourself some credit.  Steve would have died without you.”

“It’s not that simple,” he murmured.  She didn’t know about what Steve had made him promise.  She didn’t know about how he’d come apart in Natasha’s arms.  She didn’t know about Barnes.  She didn’t know how after all this, he was confused and feeling so damn lost and unsettled.  She didn’t _know_.

It didn’t matter.  “Yes, it is.  For once, _let_ something be that simple.”  She kissed him again, slowly and sweetly.  “I know you.  Contrary to all signs otherwise, I know how much this team means to you.”

“Pepper–”

“I know you’ll pull this whole thing apart, analyze every little aspect of it to find a way to stop it from happening again.  You’ll obsess and get in too deep and drive yourself crazy trying to _fix_ it.  I don’t think there’s anything to fix.”

His brain wasn’t functioning enough for this conversation right now.  “I actually feel like my obsessive tendencies are some of my best attributes,” he said, leaning in to kiss her again.  That felt good, good enough to pull him out of his funk.  Kissing he could do.  Kissing was nice and took him away from it all for a second or two.  Like drinking, only he didn’t do that anymore.  Like getting drunk on Pepper.  That was okay.  “And I have some of my best ideas when I’m obsessing, so it’s a win-win situation really.”

She pulled away as his hands got a little too handsy.  She laughed lightly, gathering his callused fingers in her own (which were so smooth and pretty) and holding them between them.  “I _know_ you, Tony.  The man who used to not be a team-player, who had to do his own thing no matter what and to hell with everyone else?”

“That man almost got Captain America killed,” Tony reminded.

“That man is a good man who makes mistakes sometimes,” Pepper corrected.  Tony winced.  “You’d do anything to keep them safe.  You spend hours inventing things to protect them out in battle.  You spend your time, your money, your talent.  You’d put a suit of armor around all of them.  You’d put a suit of armor around the world if you could.”

For some reason, that went to the part of his brain that was moderately functioning this morning.  Went there and _sunk_ in.  She grinned, lifting his hands and kissing his roughened knuckles.  “But you don’t have to.  It was an accident, no matter how you cut it.  An accident.  Sometimes things just happen.”

_Everything happens for a reason._

Somebody somewhere had said that once, hadn’t they?

She kissed him once more before stepping aside so he could finish up.  He got dressed, thoughts whirling but nothing forming quite yet.  Pepper was talking about the company, about the flurry of press surrounding this whole disaster and Happy’s efforts to get the paparazzi and media off their proverbial door step, about the tidal wave of baby gifts and well wishes still bombarding the Tower.  Tony was pretty sure he listened to some of it, maybe even answered appropriately every now and then.  His mind had slipped into that place where an idea was forming but he didn’t know _what_ it was yet.  He liked that place, where his thoughts sort of went their own way and did what they wanted without his conscious direction.  That tender time when something was just beginning to germinate in the fertile soil of his brain, needing light and water and just a bit of tender, loving care… _Tell me I did not just make a plant analogy about my ideas._

Pretty soon Pepper was getting him out the door.  His stomach was growling, so maybe breakfast wasn’t such a bad idea.  As he passed the desk of their bedroom, though, he spotted his father’s pocket watch where he’d left it the day before.  It was dull silver (in need of a really good restoration), barely visible beneath the pile of clothes he’d dump on top of it when he’d barely undressed before collapsing into bed.  He stared at it a moment, feeling such a storm of emotions again.  Anger.  Grief.  Disgust and relief and confusion.  He ended up fishing it out of his clothes before he’d really made up his mind to.  He held it in his palm, swiping his thumb slowly over the lid.  “What’s that?” Pepper asked.

“Nothing,” Tony said quickly.  He slipped the watch into his jeans pocket.  “Just… something that was given to me.”

She looked at him worriedly, maybe wanting to question him further, but she only nodded, kissed him again, and together they headed down a few floors to the common rooms.

The hum of quiet conversation greeted them as they walked down the spacious hallway.  Sure enough, breakfast was already served, a sprawling array of it that Pepper had probably ordered.  Steaming platters of eggs and breakfast meats, fresh fruit, pancakes and pastries, and carafes of coffee and juice were spread over the table.  Tony couldn’t contain the loud gurgle from his gut as the smell reached him.  “Well, if it isn’t the lord of the manor, emerging from his chamber!” Thor greeted loudly from behind a plate that was absolutely overflowing with breakfast stuffs.

Bruce and Sam turned from where they were eating, each smiling at him.  Maria was there was well, but as usual, she was on the phone and surrounded by work.  “Don’t you ever switch off?” Tony asked as he took a plate from the counter and indiscriminately filled it with food.

Maria glared at him.  “HYDRA’s still out there.  Strucker’s still out there.  Now that we have a name to go with a face, we can really start searching.  There’s still a scepter to find.  So, no, I don’t just switch off.  Someone has to run this team while you ‘recover’,” she said with air quotations.

Tony knew her well enough now to recognize that she was just ribbing him.  “Well, then, thanks.  I really needed some beauty sleep.  You think this happens by itself?”  He gestured to his face.  “And last I checked, you work for me.  So I guess it’s good you don’t switch off, on second thought.  Saves me money.”

Maria’s icy eyes narrowed, and Pepper smiled apologetically.  She nudged Tony toward the table.  “How about you not dig yourself in deeper for once?  Eat.”

“Gladly,” Tony said, and he spent a moment doing just that.  He really was famished.  He glanced around the table in between a few bites.  Pepper sat next to him, her plate teeming with fruit (except strawberries, of course) and a cup of coffee in her hand.  Bruce was looking over a few StarkPads himself, calm and collected.  Thor was chatting with Sam, his face alight with good cheer.  Sam looked well rested, which was a great improvement over the last time Tony had seen him.  “Fury?”

“He’s around,” Maria responded, obviously on hold with whomever she was calling.  “He wanted me to tell you to look into a warehouse up in Utica that your father owns.”

Tony’s brow wrinkled in confusion.  “Warehouse?  Where the hell is Utica?”

“Something about repurposing it.  Yes.  Sir?  Alright.  Understood, sir.”  She stood up and walked away.

Tony quirked an eyebrow.  “What about Mr. and Mrs. America?”

Sam chewed appreciatively before answering.  “They’re coming down.  They had something they needed to do first thing this morning, I guess.”

Pepper was adding creamer in egregious amounts to her coffee.  “And where’s Betty, Bruce?”

“Packing,” replied the physicist.  Tony vaguely remembered hearing that Ross was going to head home to West Virginia that afternoon.  He expected Bruce to be more bothered by that, but his friend remained placid, reading over his work with a surprisingly serene expression upon his unshaven face.  Tony watched him a moment more, feeling a small, happy smile twist his lips.

“Well, it was truly nice to meet her,” Pepper said.

Obviously she expected Tony to agree, and when he didn’t, she kicked his ankle lightly under the table.  “Ow!  Oh, right.  Yeah, she was helpful.  Really good addition to the Science Bros. for the duration of this crisis.”  Pepper slammed him with a withering look.  He shoveled some eggs into his mouth.  “What?” he asked around them.

Sighing she turned back to Bruce.  “She’ll be back, I trust?”

“Maybe,” Bruce said, still not looking up from this work, the light from the screens reflecting on his glasses.  Pepper smiled, pleased with that, and resumed eating her breakfast.

Maria came back, dropping her phone from her ear and tapping a few spaces on it.  “JARVIS, can you get us the news, please?”

“What’s going on?” Sam asked, brow furrowed worriedly.

JARVIS was quick to obey her, and the screen behind them winked to life.  Tony realized instantly it was some sort of impromptu press conference that was occurring at the White House if the podium and the extremely recognizable seal of the President were any indication.  It was silent aside from the clicking of cameras, invisible in the foreground, and the Avengers watched.  The mood tightened with mounting dread.  The last few times politicians had stood before the nation with something to say, it hadn’t necessarily been in their favor.

However, when the President came out and stepped up to the podium, it became obvious they had nothing to worry about.  “Thank you all for coming on such short notice.  Hopefully the news I’m about to deliver will be enough of a reward for disrupting your day.”  Ellis took a deep breath, smiling slightly as he appraised the press corps assembled in front of him.  “I spoke with the Avengers this morning, specifically with Natasha Romanoff, with whom I have maintained correspondence since the incident in Geneva.  She has informed me of a couple of facts, both much appreciated, and I’d like to share them with you, our nation, and our world.  First, the Avengers have neutralized the terrorist threat that attacked me and my fellow world leaders a week ago in Switzerland.  Like so many others of late, this man and his cohorts were affiliated with HYDRA, and the Avengers have reason to believe he might have been a prominent figure in the rogue group’s leadership.  Bringing him down is another significant victory in our world’s war against evil, so this is a much welcomed turn of events.  Details are sparse at this time, but I will attempt to answer what questions I can after this.”  Maria gave a small nod of approval; obviously that soundbite had come from her, and obviously she’d been on the phone with someone in the White House just now, likely a press secretary.

Ellis paused a moment to let that sink in before smiling further, this time more softly.  There was a glimmer of excitement in his eyes.  “The second thing I have to announce is even more welcomed.  Ms. Romanoff informed me that Captain Steve Rogers has survived the dangerous condition which caused him to collapse during the battle.  I’m very happy to tell you all that he’s expected to make a full recovery and is already well on the mend.”  Almost instantly that began trending.  The news station’s ticker at the bottom of the screen was flooded with it, headlines and comments, and Tony could practically visualize the massive waves rolling through Twitter and other social media networks.  The members of the press that were in attendance started to clap, and the President joined them, smiling broadly.  When everyone quieted, he went on.  “Both Captain Rogers and Ms. Romanoff asked me to express their unending gratitude for the well wishes and support they received from the citizens of this country and the world aboard, and I would like to add my thanks to theirs.”  Ellis paused, and it was clear he was deviating from the teleprompter.  He looked down, thinking a moment, before continuing.  “And as to whether or not we as a nation, no, we as citizens of this planet, need the Avengers, I think this incident goes a long way toward answering that.  The thought of losing Captain America in defense of our leaders was terrifying enough to send shockwaves throughout the countries of the world.  Perhaps the Avengers do require more oversight, and it’s certainly true that they _deserve_ more aid, but no matter what, they need our support and our respect.  I’m here today to–”

“That was fast.”

Down the hall, Steve and Natasha were approaching.  They both looked… really good.  Well and strong and comfortable.  Steve was dressed in a nicer pair of jeans and a loose-fitting blue sweater.  He was maybe still a little pale, but all signs that he’d ever been so sick were absolutely gone.  He was walking with his customary strength in his stride, his hand at his wife’s lower back, his eyes bright and his face relaxed.  It was remarkable, how much the serum could repair.  Tony had seen it before, of course, but with all of these thoughts and feelings and memories about his father simmering in his head, he couldn’t help the conclusion.  Captain America was Howard’s best creation.  _His best creation._   The super soldier serum was _better_ than any armor, than anything he could design, invent, or build.  Sure, in a direct fight against Captain America Iron Man would likely win, but when it came to sheer endurance, resilience, stamina…  There was no contest.  Steve should not have survived being shot by Natasha.  He shouldn’t have survived what the Winter Soldier and the STRIKE Team had done to him.  He shouldn’t have been able to do what he’d done against Omega Red.  And there was no way in hell he should have survived this.

But here he was, barely two days removed from septic shock and respiratory failure and veritable brain death, and he was basically no worse for the wear.  Like everything else of late, Tony didn’t know whether to be happy, relieved, or jealous.  He was a bit of all three.  _Don’t._   The quiet thought cut through his bitter feelings.  _Don’t.  It’s not like that, and you know it.  You know it._   The watch felt heavy in his pocket.

And then there was Natasha.  She was _stunning._   Like this had never happened, she was walking beside her husband, head held high, red hair gathered into a loose bun with tendrils framing her perfectly painted face.  Her skin was flawless, her eyes sparkling, her lips lush and pulled into a smile.  She looked somehow entirely different yet exactly the same, and it was mind-blowing.  Even as pregnant as she was, it was striking.  How much she’d changed.  How ready she seemed.  Cool, powerful, and beautiful.  Something about them both seemed _right._   Not that it hadn’t been before, but Tony had always thought it strange that someone as bland, humorless, and moral like Steve Rogers could love someone as dark, deadly, and damaged as Natasha Romanoff.  Now he was starting to see it, how they complemented each other.  How strong they were _together._

How close they’d come to losing everything.

_Don’t.  Don’t overthink it._

JARVIS immediately lowered the volume of the press conference so that it was little more than a background hum.  Thor and Sam stood as the couple came closer.  Another kick to his ankle from Pepper had Tony rising as well.  He cleared his throat, opting for being an asshole to cover how shaken he was.  “What’s with this? I thought I was the lord of the manor, and that makes Pepper the lady of the manor, and…  Oh, geez.  And we’re _waiting_ on her?”

Steve was pulling out Natasha’s chair and helping her sit.  Sam was already getting her breakfast.  Thor poured her a glass of orange juice.  “Nine months pregnant,” Natasha said by way of an explanation, and she actually smiled at that.  _Smiled_ at being pregnant.  Letting them take care of her.  Holy hell, the world had to be ending.

“I take it you guys talked to the President this morning,” Sam surmised with an amused grin on his face as he set a plate full of food in front of Natasha.  She thanked him softly and immediately started eating.

“Maria thought it would be a good idea,” Steve explained, loading another plate for himself.  It was practically overflowing by the time he sat down next to his wife.

“Barely off the phone with him and he’s already spreading the word,” Natasha commented, and Steve shrugged.  “Glad we were able to boost his approval rating.”

“Be that as it may, it seems as though we are emerging from the fire victoriously,” Thor said, grinning with approval.

Bruce cocked an eyebrow.  “Seems that way.”  He said that without any cynicism, doubt, or dismay.  Just plain old, vanilla agreement.  _The world really is ending._   “How are you guys?”

The question was directed at both Steve and Natasha.  They shared a glance.  “Good,” they answered simultaneously.  Sam rolled his eyes and busied himself with eating.

“I’m feeling fine,” Steve went on.  “Still a little sore but fine.  Got a good night’s sleep last night.”  He shared a knowing look with Sam, and Sam only smiled more broadly.

“With all due respect, Cap, your time in the spotlight is over,” Tony said with a snide grin.  Steve shook his head at him as if to say _“that_ _was the spotlight?”_   “What we want to know is how preggo is doing.  So how are ya doin’, preggo?  Done gestating yet?”

“Stark,” Natasha warned.  She turned to Maria, and all the mirth slipped from her eyes to be replaced by surprisingly obvious worry.  “Anything more from Barton?”

Maria was making herself a cup of coffee.  She returned to the table with small, apologetic shake of her head.  “Sorry.  Last time I talked to him was yesterday evening, and he said he was securing the situation.  He’ll be back soon.”

Natasha was not at all satisfied.  “But he’s okay.”

“Seems that way.”

Again, she wasn’t pleased.  She wasn’t doing anything to mask just how concerned she was.  And she didn’t glare or move away when Steve set his hand to her shoulder, opting instead to reach up, grab it, and give it a squeeze.  The same but not.  Tony couldn’t quite get over it, even now.  _A warrior woman._   Natasha.  Pepper.  Betty.  He was starting to appreciate more and more just how strong all of them were and just how much each of them made the men who loved them _stronger_.

The rest of breakfast went smoothly.  The team made idle chit chat, pointedly making an effort _not_ to focus on recent events.  It was like the proverbial eight hundred pound gorilla, glaring at them from the shadows of the room.  Nobody wanted to address it.

Nobody except Captain Perfection.

When they all started to disperse, Tony barely made it out into the hall, talking with Bruce, before Steve caught up with him.  “I’ll just be a minute,” he called back to Natasha and Sam.

Tony rolled his eyes, and Bruce smiled apologetically like he knew what was coming (probably because he’d been there himself already, knowing Steve), but he went ahead like the asshole he was.  So much for bro-hood.  Tony kept walking, hoping Steve would get his not so subtle hint that he didn’t want to talk.  “What can I do for you, Spangles?”

If Steve got it, he ignored it.  Stubborn jerk.  Up close, Tony could see his earlier assessment was correct.  Steve was still a little off, his eyes not quite right and his movements not quite as smooth and confident as they normally were, and he seemed a bit tense and excitable (though that could have been for other reasons, like the two buns about ready to burst out of his wife’s oven).  But he was almost back to normal.  And, thanks to the serum, there’d once again be no lasting ill effects.  _Convenient._ “Tony, I just wanted to say–”

“‘Thank you’, I know.  You don’t need to thank me, Cap.”

Steve looked genuinely confused.  Sometimes (like now) Tony could hardly believe he was real, that anyone could be this good and naïve.  “You saved my life.”

“I’m also the one who put you in the position to lose it, if you recall,” Tony returned.  His voice was sharper than he intended.  Steve’s face fractured in irritation and _more_ confusion, and he opened his mouth to argue.  Tony stopped him before this could devolve into another debate.  Almost every emotionally charged moment between them did.  “Look, I don’t want to go into it again.  Believe it or not, but I’ve spent the last few days while you were busy coughing your lungs out and baking your brain to a crisp doing nothing _but_ feeling bad about this.  I think I’ve had my fill of a guilty conscience for a lifetime, and that’s saying something.”

Steve was hurt.  He shook his head.  “Tony, I’m not trying to make you feel guilty.  At all.  It was an accident–”

“Yes, it was.  But it was still my fault.  Shit happens, but that doesn’t mean there’s no one to blame.”

“Isn’t that the point of that?  It happens because it happens.  It’s part of what we do,” Steve returned, clearly affronted at Tony’s attitude (and at having his gratitude dismissed).  “It’s risky and dangerous and–”

“It shouldn’t have to be.  Not like this.”

“Tony.”  Steve’s lips pulled into a tight line, and his eyes filled with compassion that Tony didn’t want to see.  “However it was that it happened, _you saved my life._   I don’t remember much, but I remember that.  And I’m not just talking about figuring out a cure or keeping me going or… freezing me so that I’d have a chance to – to live long enough for Bruce and Doctor Ross to…”

“Steve.”  _Damn him._   He didn’t remember.  He should consider himself lucky.  Tony knew this ordeal was going to stay with him a long, _long_ time.  The guilt and frustration.  The shame and rage.  The _pain_ at seeing someone else suffering and dying slowly because of his mistakes.  That wasn’t going anywhere any time soon.  He’d have to learn to live with it.  He’d have to.

He didn’t just want to live with it.  He wanted to _fix_ it.

Steve’s eyes softened.  “I remember you taking care of me.  I know… I know what that must have been like.  So I wanted to thank you for that.  You didn’t have to–”

“Yes, I did.”

“Damn it, Stark.  If you won’t let me thank you for saving my life, at least let me thank you for that.”  He stepped closer.  Before Tony really knew what was happening, Steve was _hugging_ him.  And hugging him tight.  Tony went stiff; it was his natural reaction, and it was damn hard to stop.  Steve didn’t seem to mind, holding on, and it took Tony a moment more to gingerly hug him back.

It went on for just a couple of seconds (which was a couple of seconds too long).  Tony patted Steve’s back awkwardly.  “Alright there, Rogers.  Release.  Relent.  Revert.  Let go?”

Steve pulled away.  His eyes were filled with nothing but gratitude.  “And I’m sorry for dumping on you back there.  I’m pretty sure I mistook you for How – for your father, and I know how you feel about that.”  Tony stiffened yet again.  “And I’m pretty sure I coerced you into promising to take care of–”

“I would have,” Tony interrupted.  He held Steve’s gaze firmly.  “I still will.”

Steve seemed touched by that.  He smiled.  “Thanks.”

Tony couldn’t manage much more.  He nodded uncertainly and patted Steve’s shoulder before continuing on his way lest the situation get any more awkward.  The ride to this workshop went by in a blur.  His hand went down into his pocket where the watch was, and he clasped it tenderly.  When the elevator stopped, he suddenly felt better.  Much better.  Hugging Rogers had been…  Well, not at all like him and had terribly wounded his manhood, but it felt liberating in a way.  Cathartic.  _Good._   Maybe everything really was okay.  He smiled to himself.  And he walked with a swagger in his step down the hallway, heading off to find Bruce.

He found him, alright.  In his own lab, locking lips with Ross.  Tony was so shocked that he didn’t get much beyond the open doorway.  He was kissing her in a way that a man kissed a woman he worshipped.  Nothing timid.  Nothing held back.  His hands were tight around her slender frame, keeping her close, and hers were in his hair.  Tony laughed a little under his breath.  _Way to go, Banner._   “So I’ll get those plans for Veronica ready for beta-testing,” he called.  “In the field, of course.  Later!”

He skedaddled, hearing Betty gasp something that sounded an awful lot like, “Who the heck is Veronica?” and Bruce stammering to answer, caught between laughing and yelling after him.

His workshop was quiet when he got there.  Empty.  The terminals were dark, the tools idle.  His gaze roved over his things.  Pieces for the next version of Iron Man.  An upgrade to the repulsor systems for the Iron Legion.  The beginnings of plans for stealth technology for the jet (which would be way cooler than what SHIELD had for the helicarrier).  All sorts of things he was working on and things he needed to finish.  With a sigh, he sat in his rolling chair.  It squeaked like it always did.  Everything was the same, but not.  Good, but not enough.

His fingers went back to his pocket of their own accord, and he pulled out the watch.  Sweeping his thumb over it anew, he flipped open the lid.  _Edward Stark.  Howard Stark.  Anthony Stark._   He narrowed his eyes.  _Something that was given to me._ “Hey, J?”

“Yes, sir?”

“What’s in this warehouse Fury wanted me to look at?”

The holographic terminal lit up in front of him.  He turned away from the watch to look down the manifest quickly.  “Many of your father’s unfinished experiments and inventions.  They have been relegated to storage since his death.  I believe Mr. Stane decommissioned the facility years ago.”

JARVIS was true to his word.  These things were old, dating back to the eighties and seventies, and a lot of them were projects Howard had done in collaboration with Anton Vanko and Hank Pym, back when Pym and he had been on speaking terms.  Pym in particular seemed to be attached to a great deal of it.  Signal transducers.  Special polymers that could alter their molecular structure.  Robotics and cybernetics.  Something called the Ultron project.  Tony squinted as he looked through it.  There was a lot.  _A lot._ “This is like Christmas morning,” he said.  “How come you never told me about this place?”

“You never asked, sir.  Shall I also tell you about your father’s wine cellar in the New York mansion as well?  Or his vault of vintage records that he keeps in Tampa?  Or perhaps his collection of–”

“You’re an ass.”

He could practically hear JARVIS’ smile.  “I have learned from the best.”  Tony smiled himself.  He looked back down at the watch, sitting in silence for a moment.  Science and technology.  He still had faith in it.  He always would.  This was his legacy.  Something that had been given to him.  _To protect the world._

_“You’d put a suit of armor around the world if you could.”_

That idea that had been whispering in the back of his head…  It started to take shape.  A way to protect them all.  A way to ensure this never happened again.  A way to keep everyone, this team he had, _this family_ , from ever getting hurt _again_.

Pepper did know him better than he knew himself sometimes. 

Tony snapped the watch shut and put it back into his pocket.  “JARVIS?”

“Sir?”

“Let’s go to work.”

* * *

The farmhouse was exactly as they’d left it.

Clint made sure, of course.  He checked everything over very carefully, being extra cautious and conscientious, before even thinking about letting Laura and the kids back in.  There was absolutely no sign the property was compromised or that HYDRA had even been there.  Could they have been so lucky, that Swordsman hadn’t been lying and really had gone rogue on his hunt for Clint?  That HYDRA really didn’t know about Laura and her kids?

It was probably the case, but he wasn’t going to be sloppy.  He’d almost asked Laura to come with him to New York where he knew it was safe, but he’d stopped himself.  It wasn’t fair to ask her to uproot her life again, to ask her to give up their little farm.  Her children were in school here in Clarkston and most likely had friends.  She did, as well.  He couldn’t tell them they needed to leave just because he wanted them to.  So, instead, he’d stopped by another shopping center as they drove back in a used car he bought using some of the cash he’d had stashed in the safe house (miraculously it had survived the fire) and gotten another prepaid phone.  This time when he contacted Hill, he’d asked to speak to Fury.  While Laura had taken the kids into a motel where they would spent the night, he’d asked his former boss to help him again.  After he’d explained the situation, Fury had agreed to do everything he could to keep the Mitchell family safe.  With JARVIS’ help (and under the strictest of secrecy – even Stark wouldn’t know), Fury would maintain constant digital surveillance of their house with Stark Industries satellites.  The Iron Legion would be dispatched to install security systems that could report an incident within seconds.  Should anything be amiss, they could reach them almost immediately.

The Legion would arrive tomorrow to get it all set up.  He’d explained that to Laura on the latter half of the drive.  She’d seemed worried but not enough to question that he knew best.  And Fury, surprisingly, hadn’t really questioned him either, not why he seemed so concerned and not why he wanted to keep this quiet and secret from the team.  That had been good, because Clint hadn’t had an answer for him.  As he walked back out of the house to the car where the family was waiting, he still didn’t.  Something about this…  He didn’t want to let it go.  This was just his in a way, and so few things in his life were.  Even though he knew he needed to go back, part of him _never_ wanted to.  He wanted to stay as long as he was welcome.  As long as Laura would have him.

As crazy as it was, he was starting to understand why Natasha had disappeared after Crimea.  He’d found out a few days after the fact that she’d practically moved in with Rogers.  Black Widow had taken _vacation_ , as crazy as that sounded, and had all but vanished to hole up in Steve’s apartment and take care of him as he’d recovered from his injuries.  At the time, he’d been a little annoyed that she’d just up and left the mess that their mission to take down Brushov had created.  Now he got it.  She’d found her home, and she’d wanted to “move in”, so to speak.  To take the moment of bliss and appreciate it.  _Live_ it.  Love the one she’d found.

He wanted that, too.

So Fury would keep it all secret for now at least.  He trusted that.  JARVIS and the Iron Legion would protect them, even if he had to go and even if (he could hardly bear to think it) Laura didn’t want him to come back.  The house seemed secure.  It was already evening, and the fight with Duquesne was a day removed.  All that was left was to make sure they were home safe.

After walking down the long driveway to the road where he’d parked, he slipped back into the car’s driver seat.  The kids were asleep in the back, Lucky snuggled up between them.  The last light of day had doused everything in gray, yellow and orange far away on the horizon across the gently rolling hills of farmland.  Dusk was quiet, peaceful.  Clint let loose a long breath and turned to Laura.  She was watching him with dark eyes.  “It seems safe,” he declared quietly.  “I don’t think they ever came here.”

She nodded.  She’d been quiet since the fight at his old home.  Clint was worried, to be honest.  Killing was second nature to him, but to her…  It was probably bothering her, what she’d done.  Even if she’d saved Clint’s life and put a horrific monster to rest, it was still overwhelming.  And the kids had seen and experienced something that would undoubtedly scar them.  Their innocence had been a casualty in all of this.  Furthermore, the mere thought that they could have been killed, like pawn in Duquesne’s game, like lambs to the slaughter…  This was another reason he didn’t want the team involved.  Like it or not, the lives the Avengers led were dangerous and he didn’t want that for them.

He’d said it before, said it so many times, but he needed to say it again.  “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” she replied.  She’d been quiet every other time he’d spoken those words.  Quiet, and he’d been so afraid that now, now when she’d experienced the very substance of who and what he was, _now_ would be the moment she despised him.  Nobody could be so good as to accept someone who’d lived like he had, done the things he’d done.  She gazed out over the long shadows covering her house and her yard.  He wondered if she was seeing things differently now, if the familiarity of her home was disconcerting because she’d left as one person and had come back as someone else.  He knew how that felt.

His insecurities compounded upon themselves so much that he had no idea what to say.  “I’ll stay out here, if you want.  I’ll help you get the kids in and sleep out here.”

“Clint, don’t.”

“Laura, I can’t–”

“Do you know why I trusted you?”  She turned to face him again, and now her eyes were watery.  “Do you?”

He was afraid of the answer.  There wasn’t any heat in her voice, but he couldn’t stand her anger now.  If she turned him away…  _I can’t go back like that.  I can’t._   She sighed and looked at the house.  “My husband…  We met when we were kids.  He was older than me, just a few years, though when you’re a skinny nothing of a little girl that’s a lot.  But even back then, he was big.  Big for his age with a big heart and big dreams.  Our fathers were friends.  His family used to live right down the road from us.  I was an only child and so shy, so his mother kept pressuring him to include me in everything he did.  I was like this tag-along, but he never made me feel that way.  I was lonely, and my parents never had much time for me, and he…  He took care of me.  Always.  Made me feel special and protected.  Made me feel wanted.  Made me feel safe.  God, that sounds pathetic.  He was my knight in shining armor.  And it’s so stupid, but I fell in love with him just like that.  I fell in love with him the minute I knew how to fall in love.”

She sighed again, clearly trying to hold onto her emotions.  “It was the perfect story.  All through school we were sweethearts.  We got married as soon as we could.  It was assumed we would, that we’d already found our happily ever after and all we have to do was live it.  I went to nursing school.  He inherited his parents’ farm.  Things were nice and easy.  Somewhere along the way, though…  I didn’t let myself see it at first, that maybe he wasn’t this… hero I thought he was.  I knew he wasn’t perfect, and I never expected that he would be, but there were things.  Fights that were grounded in nothing.  He got cruel when he was angry.  He was never cruel before.  He drank more, came home less.  Then I got pregnant with Cooper.  He was angry at first, but when the baby was born, I thought he’d turned the corner.  Everything was better for a while, and I could almost convince myself that he was still the man I’d fallen for.  But the time Lila was born, I knew he wasn’t.  He never would be.  We were… dragging him down.  Holding him back from the life he’d wanted.  All those big dreams.”  Her voice broke.  “And I tried to make it better, to make _him_ better.  I did everything I could, but it didn’t matter.  I tried to hold on for the kids because they loved him so much.  They didn’t see the things I saw.  And I did hold on.  I held on for so long.  Years.  I lied for him, made excuses, made myself _weaker_ so he’d feel more in control and less threatened.  It didn’t matter.  He never came home at night.  He let the farm go to waste.  He took our money.  And I knew he was cheating on me.  That didn’t hurt so much as… as _knowing_ what kind of father I’d chosen for my kids.  How disappointed they were.  Cooper was starting to realize that his dad wasn’t ever going to take him to play catch or go to his little league games or help him with his homework.  Lila would soon.  It was fortunate, I guess, that he just left because I don’t know if I would’ve ever been strong enough to end it.”

She sniffled and looked down at her hands.  “You don’t know how bad I felt.  I tried _so hard_ to save us, to save him, and I failed.  And I kept telling myself it wasn’t my fault, that _he_ was the problem, but maybe it was me.  Maybe I asked too much, wanted too much out of him.  Maybe I didn’t make the home he’d wanted, couldn’t provide enough for him to reach the dreams he’d had.  Maybe I convinced myself too much of a lie.  Maybe…”  She smiled a sad smile.  “Maybes don’t matter.”

Her eyes went back to their house, to the front porch that was quiet and quaint and lonely with shadows covering it.  “Then you showed up.  And I saw the way Cooper looked at you.  He knew who you were, told me that you were an Avenger and a hero and…  I don’t know, Clint.  My knight in shining armor.”  Her smile brightened, tears slipping down her face.  “I knew what you were.  I just knew it.  I knew I could help you.  Save you.  I know that sounds stupid and maybe a little full of myself, but it’s true.  I just _knew_ it.  And I wanted to do that, for you and for me.  I needed to do it.  I needed to prove to myself that I could.”  She reached over and took his hand where it rested in his lap.  “Things happen for a reason, right?”

He didn’t care if it was wrong anymore.  He reached over and took her face between his hands and kissed her hard.  She wasn’t surprised.  She didn’t flinch or resist.  Her lips were soft, warm, a little chapped but so wonderful against his that he nearly shuddered.  But he didn’t, holding her tighter and swearing to himself from this moment on that he was going to _be better._   Be a better man, this hero she and her children thought he was.  No more darkness.  No more doubt.  Nothing other than what she believed he could be.  And he swore to himself that as long as she’d let him, he’d never let her go.

He slipped his fingers through her hair, loving how soft and thick it was, realizing how much he’d wanted to do that since he’d opened his eyes and seen her for the first time.  She wrapped her arms around his neck, deepening the kiss, and she finally pulled away for a breath, she laughed.  “You’re not sleeping in the car,” she whispered.  He smiled, wiping away her tears, and kissed her again.

“Mom?  Are we home?”

Laura pulled away sheepishly, blushing.  “Yeah, Coop.  We’re home.”

They got out of the car.  Lila stirred as Clint lifted her from the backseat, but she made no move to get down from his arms.  Cooper hopped down after Lucky, looking at their house.  Then he turned to Clint.  “And it’s safe?”

“Sure is,” Clint replied with a smile.

Lucky wagged his tail happily before bounding up to the porch.  Cooper followed.  Laura went with him, looking back at Clint as he carried Lila inside.  He paused on the porch, watching them.  Cooper was chatting about something, his voice getting louder as he eased into acceptance.  It was safe.  It was home.

The family gathered for dinner.  Laura found some spaghetti and she whipped up a nice meal in no time at all.  Talk turned to other things.  Mundane things.  School and what excuse they would use for having missed some time.  Homework.  Other things the kids were interested in.  Clint listened, watching Laura who was watching him with a little something of a dreamy smile on her face.  She blushed again when he caught her doing it and looked away.  His heart sped with excitement every time.  Eventually bedtime came around.  Laura took the kids upstairs to take shower while Clint cleared the dishes.  He washed them, listening to them chat upstairs.  They sounded so relaxed, so happy and contented, that he couldn’t help but let himself think it would be okay.  What they’d experienced would stay with them, certainly.  But it hadn’t changed them, not so much that anything was lost or ruined.

When he was done cleaning up, he suffered a moment of doubt at the foot of the stairs, wondering anew if this was okay.  He took a deep breath.   _It’s okay._   Up he climbed.  Tentatively he went to Cooper’s room.  The boy was already in bed, Lucky lying at the foot of it.  “You okay?” he asked from the door.

Cooper nodded, his hair mussed and damp.  “You?”

Clint nodded, too.  “Yeah.”

“Is Iron Man coming?”

Clint came a little closer.  “I don’t think so.”  Cooper’s face fell a little.  “But I’ve got something better tomorrow.  The Iron Legion.  It’s like Iron Man, only a whole bunch of them.”

Cooper’s eyes went wide.  “Wow.  Cool.”

“Yeah.  So get some rest.  Night, pal.”

“Night.”  Clint turned to go.  “Hey, Clint?”

He turned around again.  “What, Coop?”

Cooper smiled sheepishly.  “Think I’m changing my mind about my favorite Avenger.  Captain America’s cool and all…”  He glanced around his room, at the Captain America posters and toys and things, before settling his gaze back on Clint.  “But Hawkeye’s cooler.”

Maybe Cooper was shining him on just a little.  Maybe.  He really couldn’t care less if he was. His heart swelled with pride and he nodded again, closing the door a little behind him as he left.  Out in the hallway, he let himself beam.  It was ridiculous, but it felt _so good_.

Laura was waiting outside Lila’s room.  “She wants to ask you something,” she said, tipping her head toward her daughter.

“Me?”

Laura nodded and stepped aside further so he could go in.  Like Cooper, Lila was already tucked in.  She had some of her stuffed animals gathered around her, and she was watching Clint with those same wide, owlish eyes that she had before.  She waited until he was closer and then she whispered, “Mommy said you’re leaving.”

Clint crouched at the side of her bed.  He reached forward and brushed the brown hair from her forehead.  “Yeah, tomorrow.  And just for a couple of days.”

“Daddy left.”

“I know, honey.”

She stared right at him, straight and plain and innocent.  “Are you my new daddy?”

That seemed so sudden, but knowing what these kids had had for a father, maybe it made sense.  Maybe Clint had looked out for them more, protected them more, _cared for them more_ in a matter of days than their real father had for their entirety of their young lives.  He didn’t know what to say at first, so shocked by her simple question.  Laura stepped in the room behind him and set a hand to his shoulder, tender and true.  “I don’t know,” he answered honestly.  “But I do know I’m coming right back.”

“Promise?”

Clint looked up at Laura, and she tipped her hand to his cheek in a sweet caress and smiled down at him.  “Yes, sweetheart.”  He turned back to Lila, taking a deep breath and letting himself be happy.  Letting himself be where he was meant to be.

Letting himself come home.  “I promise.”

* * *

Later that night, Natasha and Steve had a quiet dinner by themselves.  This time JARVIS ordered some Italian for them, so Steve only had to go down to the Tower’s lobby to get it.  He came back up bearing bags that smelled of garlic and tomato sauce, and Natasha caught him at the door of their suite, barely waiting for him to set the food onto the table before kissing him breathless.  She’d been doing that a lot since he’d woken up, overcome with a need to _know_ he was alive and well.  That it was all really over.  She didn’t know why exactly this moment felt so monumental.  They’d been alone often since Steve had limped out of the infirmary the day before, tender steps taken with both Sam and her supporting him.  Maybe now, as he brought home dinner like this was any other night, it simply _felt_ real.  A return to whatever state of normalcy they could manage being who they were.  It was incredible.  Overwhelming.  After so much had separated them, the glass and fear in quarantine, plastic suits and gloves and face masks, the pain and terror with death threatening…  She needed to touch him.

He was firm beneath her fingers, hot but not fevered, as strong and sturdy as he’d ever been.  She kissed him and kissed him, kissed him until there was nothing else but this moment and him beneath her hands and lips, the way he tasted and smelled and looked, and when she leaned back she couldn’t hold in a sob.  “Nat, it’s alright,” he whispered.  His voice tremored a little.  “I’m alright.”

She tucked her head under his chin.  There was a time when she’d despised feeling like this.  Smaller than him, tucked into his arms, reliant on his strength to support her.  At this moment, she surrendered to it completely and let herself breathe deeply of him and listen to the steady thudding of his heart beneath her cheek.  She squeezed him tight, not caring one bit how awkward it was with the bulge of the twins between them.  “I know that.  I do.  I just…”

“I know, love.  I feel the same way.”  His arms were possessive, keeping her close, so firm and powerful around her that there was no way she could escape even if she wanted to.  She didn’t want to.  They stood there in the middle of their suite, their dinner getting cold, clinging to each other.  Hands desperately tight in each other’s clothes.  Kissing.  Breathing together.  Natasha closed her eyes and swore to herself that she’d never let another moment go without remembering this, _what this felt like_ , how close she’d come to losing it.  Never again would she take a second for granted.  _Never._

Eventually she pulled away.  He smiled brightly, wiping his tears before gently sweeping his thumbs through hers.  “It’s alright now.  Right?  It’s all okay.”

She took his hand from her cheek and kissed his palm.  Even the faint scar from the carbonadium was gone.  The others on his side and shoulder from Omega Red were as well.  She’d noticed that when she’d helped him take a shower yesterday morning.  The serum had completely healed him.  His own.  Barnes’.  Together they’d restored him.  “It is,” she agreed.

He leaned down, closing his eyes, and braced his forehead to hers.  She closed her eyes again as well and felt his hands shift down to cradle her stomach.  It was rock hard, and he touched gently.  They breathed together a moment more.  Then he slowly dropped to his knees in front of her like he had before when they’d argued, a lifetime ago it seemed.  “Steve…”

“Shh,” he whispered.  “Groveling again.”

She couldn’t help her smile, shaking her head at him as he pressed his face into her belly.  He knelt there a long moment, eyes still closed, and maybe this was a bit of a joke or him being silly, but it wasn’t entirely.  He let loose a long breath that shook slightly and sank down onto his heels.  He really was groveling.  And apologizing.  And thanking them.  And praying.  All without words, with sighs and gentle kisses and careful caresses.  She let him have that, this moment where he appreciated everything he still had.  That he hadn’t been taken from them.  That God or fate or whatever forces there were had spared him.  After he relaxed, humming lightly against her belly, Natasha smiled at him.  She wove her fingers through his hair before trailing them down to his jawline and lifting his face.  He looked up at her hazily.  “Dinner?” he finally said.

“It’s getting cold.”

With seemingly great effort, he got himself back onto his feet and went to get their meal ready.  They didn’t talk much while they ate.  Steve dished out some baked lasagna and ziti, giving her more than she felt like having and himself two or three times that.  His body was working overtime with the serum repaired, and he’d been consuming enough food to sustain a small army since yesterday.  Natasha tried not to let her mind wander too much.  Not to Barnes.  Not to Clint, wherever he was and whatever he was doing.  Not to the pile of baby things that still needed sorting, the furniture she’d bought with Pepper’s help that still needed assembling, the preparations she still had to make.  Not to the media that was in an all-out tizzy over the babies now that they knew that Steve was well and she was so late into her pregnancy.  Not to how _near_ everything still was.  She refused to acknowledge any of that, enjoying her food, enjoying watching Steve eat.  She let it all go.

And afterward, she took a long, hot shower, letting the water ease away the aches that seemed permanently set into her muscles.  Here too she allowed herself to enjoy it, to drift without thought or emotion, to be tired and contented.  She stood in the bathroom when she was at long last done, dressed in her robe and brushing her damp hair, when the door creaked open.  The next thing she knew, Steve’s strong arms were wrapping around her from behind, and his mouth was settling on the nape of her neck.  “Back again?” she whispered, lips curled in amusement.

“Uh-huh.”

“Your chances are next to nil,” she reminded him.  “Even if I had the energy, which I don’t, and even if I didn’t feel like a beached whale, which I do, Bruce didn’t clear you for any physical activity.  Pretty sure that includes sex.”

“Since when do you care about the rules?” he murmured into her skin, his breath warm and wet as he kissed his way down her neck to her shoulder blade, pushing the robe aside.  “Besides, we never did test whether making love can cause labor.  We’re running out of time on that.”

“We still have a couple of weeks.”  _I need a couple of weeks._

“With the way our luck’s been goin’?  Doubt that’ll happen.”  She had to concede that.  “And Bruce would approve.  It’s for science.”  She laughed loudly, and he smiled dopily into her skin.  His ministrations were half-hearted at best, and he was actually wearing a shirt.  And pajama pants.  If that wasn’t a sign of how tired he was, she didn’t know what would be.  Still he planted sloppy kisses across the back of her neck, his large hands slipping through the front of the robe to run across her breasts.

She lightly batted him away.  “Bed,” she ordered.

He didn’t even pout this time, giving her a final lingering kiss before clumsily staggering his way back out.  She watched him flop onto their bed, shaking her head in bemusement.  She finished up getting ready, changing into her pajamas and brushing her teeth, before turning off the lights and following him.

Steve was already asleep.  He’d crashed hard and fast, barely under the blankets and already breathing deeply and evenly with his face buried into his pillow.  Natasha watched him a moment.  Then she went to gather their discarded clothes and set them to one of the chairs.  Tangled up in her sweater were his dog tags.  She held them a moment in her palm, and unpleasant memories prodded at her resolve.  Coming here and looking at their empty bed, trying so hard not to cry, not to see and smell him everywhere, not to collapse in terror.  Finding his dog tags and putting them on.  They were _memories,_ and the things she feared were over, so there was no need to be upset by them anymore.  Still, it took her a moment to rise above it.  It would for a while.  This would stay with her.  He didn’t remember the worst of it, but she’d never forget.  She looked at the expanse of flawless, pale skin of Steve’s back where his shirt had rucked up, watched his muscles shift slightly as he breathed, watched all that health and power and vitality nearly glow in the dim light of their bedroom.  He was beautiful.  And he was there.  It was all she could for a moment just to breathe, to stare and appreciate that.  Not to cry again.  Two days ago she’d let him go, and _he was there._   It took a lot to accept that. 

When she did, she walked back to their vanity, pulled open the drawer, and set the dog tags carefully inside.  She didn’t believe in silly nonsense like luck or fate or trinkets that could change one’s future, but she had to admit it was comforting to think his dog tags had some power to keep them together.  She smiled faintly before closing the drawer.  Then she climbed in bed beside Steve, told JARVIS to turn off the lights, snuggled close, and tried to sleep.

She couldn’t.  The minutes dragged by, silent and lengthy.  She couldn’t switch her mind off, and she felt weird, tingling with something she couldn’t quite identify.  Not nervousness.  Not excitement. Shock, maybe, that it really was over.  The waking nightmare of the last few days was quiet and distant, not gone really but not terribly troubling.  Her worries were the same now, far enough away that she wasn’t really consumed by them.  Everything was right again, as right as it had been before and maybe even righter still.  Steve shifted closer to her, draping an arm around her waist and tangling their legs together.  She ran her fingers up and down the length of his lower back, listening to him breathe into her neck.  One of the twins kicked her.  The other moved as well.  They’d been quiet the last couple of days, as if they, too, were exhausted and overwhelmed by everything that had happened.  _“Vse horosho,”_ she whispered.  _“Idti spat’.”_   She rubbed her other hand down her belly.  _Sleep.  There’s still time._

Apparently they had other plans.

Natasha was finally drifting closer to slumber when a sharp, _sharp_ pain in the bottom of her belly snapped her right out of it.  Her eyes popped open, and she immediately sucked in a harsh breath.  The pain shot up and down her body, into her back, pelvis, and thighs.  Unlike how it had been at the airport, though, _this_ was real.  She _knew_ it.  She lay there, riding it about with nary a whimper, wondering and waiting.  Denying.  As it receded and got her breathing under control, that tingling that had troubled her before intensified, and a cool sweat broke out over her heated skin.  She looked down at Steve, who was still out like a light and wrapped around her like an octopus.  Her brain was just kicking back into gear when the next contraction hit.  This time she managed to sit up a little, wrapping her arm around her belly with a moan.  Her breath came faster and harsher through her teeth.  _No, no, no.  There’s still time.  This isn’t happening.  And it’s not supposed to be this fast!_ She glanced at the clock.  That wasn’t even two minutes apart!

“Steve,” she gasped.  He was a dead weight on her.  “Steve!”  The next contraction hit, and she groaned, struggling to get out from under him.  “Steve, ow.  God, wake up.  Steve!”

He grunted and turned over.  “What?” he mumbled sleepily.

“It’s…  I think it’s…  I think it’s time!”

“No, it’s not,” came the muffled response.  “’m too tired.”  He burrowed deeper into the blankets.  “Go backta sleep, ’tasha.”

 _Nope.  No, no, no._ She grabbed his shoulder and shook him hard.  “Wake _up_.  It’s time.  Come on!”

“…time for what?”

_“Rogers!”_

That got him going.  He rolled out of bed less than gracefully, hitting the floor with a thud and shooting to his feet.  He blinked rapidly, glancing around like he didn’t know where he was or what he was doing.  Then his gaze settled on her, on the way she was panting and grimacing and holding her midsection, and it clicked.  His eyes widened and all the color drained from his face.  “Right now?”

She didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry.  “Yeah.  Yeah, right now.”

“As in _now_ , now.”

She glared at him.   _“Now.”_

All the confidence of Captain America was _miles_ away as he stared at her, slack-jawed and utterly horrified.  Natasha gritted her teeth against the next contraction; they were coming fast and hard, like all the sudden the floodgates were open and labor was happening and _it was time._   For an eternity, all they could do was stare at each other.

She felt something wet and warm between her legs, and suddenly she was terrified.  She lifted the duvet a little and then yanked it back down.  _No…_   “I think my water just broke,” she whispered.

 _That_ really got him going.  “JARVIS–”

“I am already informing Doctor Banner,” the AI responded.  “The contractions are coming less than two minutes apart, which likely suggests you are already in active labor.  I suggest you move to the infirmary as quickly as possible.  I also feel I should remind you, Ms. Romanoff, to pay attention to your breathing.  Lamaze techniques stipulate that–”

“JARVIS!” Natasha snapped through the pain.

“Right.”

Steve practically jumped over the bed to her side.  “Can you walk?” he gasped, pulling the duvet away and making a pointed effort _not_ to look at the wet spot beneath her.  “I’ll carry you.  I can do that.  Okay, yeah.  It’s fine.  We got this.”

“Captain Rogers, I said quickly, but there is really no need to panic–”

“What?  No.  No way.  It’s _not_ fine.  You’re not carrying – it’s not – oh, God.  God, this hurts.  Holy hell.  Wait.  Damn it, Steve!  I can walk.  I can – okay, okay.  No, it’s fine.  You know what?  You’re right.  Ah, God.  _Bozhe Moi._   Carry me.  Hurry, hurry, hurry!  _Carry me._ ”  He scooped her up into her arms, top sheet and all, and ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Vse horosho._ – It's alright.  
>  _Idti spat'._ – Go to sleep.  
>  _Bozhe Moi._ – Oh, my God.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Well, here we finally are. Thank you all so much for sticking with me for this long haul. It was brought to my attention that this chapter comes about nine months after the end of "Terminal Frost" where we first learned Natasha was pregnant. So wow. It's fate :-) Little warning for the squeamish: there are (obviously) descriptions of childbirth and related newborn activities in this chapter. I wouldn't call it graphic, but just be advised and read at your own discretion if that sort of thing upsets you. Also, I'm not an expert on childbirth and obstetrics. Done the labor and delivery thing a few times myself, but never with twins, so this might not necessarily be entirely accurate. It's based on my own experiences, knowledge, and research. Enjoy!

Natasha was rapidly discovering that there was a very good reason it was called labor.

“There’s another one coming,” Steve warned her.  He could see the contractions on the screen beside her bed.  She’d been laying there for an hour already.  They’d arrived in the medical ward at the same time as Bruce, who’d looked like he, too, had been roused from a peaceful sleep if his messy hair and bleary eyes had been any indication.  He’d immediately jolted to full awareness, however, when he realized _this_ _was really it._  He’d hooked both the contraction and fetal heart rate monitors back up to Natasha after Steve had helped her change out of her pajamas and into a hospital gown and boosted her onto the bed.  From there, Bruce had performed a quick internal exam and discovered she was four centimeters dilated, completely effaced (whatever that meant), and, in fact, the first twin’s amniotic sac had broken.  Then he’d left to make some phone calls.  That had been a while ago, and only Steve was in the room with her now, watching the monitors and trying to be helpful.  “It’s coming, love.  Breathe.”

Yes, it was coming.  It was coming hard and harsh, and she barely had a chance to brace herself against it.  It was a strange pain, not the worst she’d experienced in her life but certainly not something she could just brush aside.  She’d read online that some women likened it to the worst menstrual cramps imaginable.  Thanks to what the Red Room had done to her, she’d never much experienced what “normal” cramps were supposed to feel like, but this…  It was pretty bad.  The rock hard muscle of her uterus tightened and tightened until breathing was a chore, until her back throbbed and her pelvis felt like it was cracking under the pressure, until she could hardly do much else but concentrate on getting through it.  But that was what was strange about it.  She _got_ through it.  They came in waves, in very predictable waves, and like waves, they swelled and crested and peaked and then dipped into release like sliding down into a trough.  And the sliding down was such a momentary relief that she almost felt high after surviving each one, like getting through every contraction was a victory.  One step closer to this being over.

Climbing up to the crest, though?  Like now?  Less than pleasant.  “Breathe, Nat.”

This was where it got bad.  “I swear to God, if you tell me to breathe one more time…  Oh, God.  Oh, God!”

“Okay, okay, I won’t,” Steve promised.  It was hard to focus on him when it got bad.  He was right there with her, had been continually in fact, doing _everything_ imaginable to make this easier.  Natasha didn’t know whether to hate Bruce or love him for showing Steve how to read the little tracings on the monitor for her contractions, because her husband had elected himself to keep track of them, timing them, letting her know when they were coming and when they were ebbing (it was only a little creepy – and amazing – that he could _see_ all of that from the tiny sensors attached to her bare belly).  And he was watching the twins’ heartrates, both of them, and she could see he was driving himself crazy with worry.  “I won’t.  I won’t.  It’s alright.”

“Don’t tell me that, either,” she growled, writhing a little despite herself.  God, this was awful.  And it wasn’t just the pain.  It was the _vulnerability._   Exposure.  Lying there with practically nothing on, only this thin nothing of a gown and a thin nothing of sheet covering her naked lower half.  She’d never liked doctors, never felt comfortable in this setting, never cared for the unnatural submission that came to her in the face of medical procedures.  The Red Room had done that to her, one of its many lasting curses.  Their cruel “physicians” had branded an automatic response into the core of her body and heart: fear and resignation.  Struggling meant more pain.  Panic was ignored.  Her wants were irrelevant.  She’d had no choices back then in Brushov’s hands.  They’d done to her what they’d wanted, and she’d _had no choices._

She _knew_ this was as far from that as possible, but it was hard to shake free of those responses, especially now when she again _felt_ like her choices had been wrested from her.  Granted, these were entirely different forces doing that, entirely different reasons (the exact _opposite_ reasons in fact) for being in this bed and in this position.  For months she’d swallowed down her aversion, the traumatic memories and inclinations to run and fight, the terror she felt every time someone claiming to be a doctor touched her.  She’d slowly adjusted to Bruce’s tentative, practical hands.  Now, though, her body was beyond her control, well and truly _beyond_ it, and she felt more naked and unprotected than she _ever_ had before.  No clothes.  No masks.  No mission.  No training.  _Nothing_.  Nothing but Steve and her own belief that this was okay and she could do it.

_I can do this._

The pain reached its apex, and she didn’t think for a few seconds.  Steve took her hand again.  That was good.  Something to anchor her when it reached its worst intensity.  He was right there, looking between her face and the monitor, letting her squeeze his hand.  With the serum from the twins pumping through her combined with her own enhanced strength, she wondered idly if it hurt.  He didn’t flinch, at least not at that.  “It’s almost over,” he swore softly.  “You can do it.”

“You… you a cheerleader now?”

“Right now, yeah.  Breathe, Nat.”

“Rogers!”

“Sorry!”

Natasha gasped, trying to focus on her breathing (as much as she didn’t want to admit it, she knew he was right – that was extremely important, and it gave her something _to do_ , something to focus _on_ ).  The steady _swish swish swish_ of the babies’ heartbeats was thunderous as she worked through the contraction, digging her nails into Steve’s palm, twisting his fingers hard enough that, were it anyone else, she’d be worried about breaking them.  He just took it.  She managed to get her eyes open, managed to look at him, and found him watching her with baby blues that were wide and frightened and _desperate_ to do something to make this better.

Finally came the slide down the other side.  There must have been endorphins flooding her brain, because it felt good.  Like the serum was trying to make it easier.  Rejuvenating her in every way it could in between the contractions.  Giving her extra strength, extra endurance, and extra relief.  She didn’t know if that could be the case, but it was nice to think it.  “Okay,” she breathed out, smiling lazily despite herself.  “Okay.  Okay.”

“Okay?” Steve asked, now trying to readjust her grip on him without disturbing her too much.

“Yeah, okay.”

He chuckled a little, a tad nervous at her sudden change in mood.  This whole thing was so unpredictable.  As crazy as it was for her, clamoring for the last vestiges of control over herself, it was probably even more so for him having to watch it.  “You look like the cat who got the cream.”

“Better now.  I think it’s… I think it’s the serum.”

Steve looked surprised.  Then he smiled faintly, like he was happy _something_ he’d done was making this better for her.  He leaned down and kissed her sweaty forehead, brushing her mussed hair away.  “Give you every drop in my body if I could,” he murmured into her forehead.

“No,” she replied, not having the energy to push him away.  “We just got yours working again.  _No._ ”

He laughed more fully, flushing a bit in embarrassment.  “What else can I do for you then?”  He was quick to straighten, to grab the damp washcloth he’d gotten for her forehead.  Normally she despised anyone fussing over her, but it felt good right now, drifting contentedly in between contractions.  He wiped the sweat away from her face and then carefully set the cloth over her brow.  “You want some water?”

“Bruce said not to drink,” she reminded muzzily.  “Or eat.”  _Where did he go, anyway?_

Steve must have been truly stricken with equal parts excitement and panic to have forgotten what Bruce had told them.  “There’s ice,” he said after a beat, triumphant to have come up with that solution, and then he was readjusting the sheet to cover her lower body and legs better and heading to the door.

The next contraction came without warning.  “No, no!  Steve!  Wait!”  He turned around and was back in a blink.  He scrambled to take up her hand again, and Natasha groaned through gritted teeth.  _Not going to lose it.  Not going to cry.  Not going to.  Not going to._   “Oh, God.  God…  Steve!”

“Right here,” he promised, holding her as much as he could.

The pain ratcheted up quickly, faster than she was prepared for, and a slew of Russian obscenities (a few particularly vulgar) blasted through her trembling lips.  Steve understood, of course.  “Language?” he admonished with a little smile, flushed red with worry.

She glared at him.  _Glared._   It was hard with the pain trying to _invert_ her abdomen, it seemed, but she managed, sitting up a little by digging her elbows into the bed.  “I hate you for doing this to me,” she snapped.  “Hate you.  You… you know how much?”

Some part of her mind still registering what she was saying and thinking noticed that he looked a little upset.  But he blinked it away, and she couldn’t hold onto her guilt.  He smiled.  “How much?”

“So much.  So damn much, Rogers.  You did this to me.”

“I know, love.  Just breathe.”

She was in too much pain to snap at him for uselessly reminding her _yet again_ to watch her goddamn breathing, instead closing her eyes and simply obeying.  In through her nose, out through her mouth.  She could do that.  “‘Be his partner,’ he said,” she gasped, grimacing.  The contraction was getting _worse_ , and she was having a hard time doing anything but panting.  But she was stubborn.  “‘Sh-show him h-how to be a SHIELD agent,’ he said.”

“He?” Steve asked, smoothing back her hair and watching the monitor to see if the contraction was ending.

“Fury!  Please, God…”

Steve came closer, wrapping an arm around her chest.  She latched onto it, curling her nails into his forearm.  “You can do it,” he murmured encouragingly.  “You’re almost there.”

_“Steve…”_

“Breathe, baby.  Don’t talk.  Just breathe.”  He was like a broken record, but her body so craved comfort and relief right then that she couldn’t care.  And the muscles of his arms and chest were strong and sure around her until she couldn’t see or feel much else besides him.  He was like a shield, like he was trying to block the pain from reaching her.  She blinked away tears, concentrating on what he said to do, concentrating on what he was saying.  It was hard to focus on his words, but she realized it didn’t really matter _what_ he was saying.  His voice was low, a wordless murmur, it seemed, against her ear.  She held onto that, onto the sweet, calming nothings he was telling her, and rode through it.

Once again she was sliding down the other side, exhausted and going limp and pliant on the bed.  “Didn’t mean that,” she whispered.  “Steve… I didn’t mean that… I don’t hate you.”

He actually laughed, the ass.  “’Course you don’t.  But you don’t hafta like me too much right now either.”  He grinned crookedly, kissing her forehead as he leaned away from her.  He sniffled, and she wondered a moment if maybe he didn’t have tears in his eyes.  She supposed this was fitting, in a twisted sort of way, that he had to watch her go through this without being able to take away her pain just as she’d had to watch him suffer through being sick without being able to touch him.  The second that sour thought went through her addled brain, she dismissed it.  And he gathered himself quickly.  “These are coming fast.  Two minutes, maybe three.”  She didn’t know what that meant.  One of the twins moved inside her – _not much longer and they’ll be out and I’ll_ see _them move_ – and she groaned as that made her uterus tighten again, not quite into a full contraction but definitely a pang of discomfort.  Steve was rattled; in these few moments where she was in better control of her faculties, she could see how frayed he was around the edges, how he was putting on a brave front for her sake.  There was terror in his eyes, panic in his hands, that she’d never seen before, not even when they’d been facing down some of the worst threats and dangers the world had ever seen.  Had she been in better command of her emotions, she might have been amused.  As it stood, she needed him to stay calm, because if he lost it, she’d lose it, too.  She knew it.  “Where the hell did Bruce go?”

JARVIS felt the need to explain.  “He is in the Tower, Captain Rogers.  He told me to inform you that he would be back as soon as possible.  Rest assured that I am keeping him apprised of both Ms. Romanoff’s vital signs and those of the twins.”

Steve was very clearly not assured by that.  It was so strange to see him this angry.  And flustered.  “Well, then apprise him of the fact that Nat’s in a lot of pain and there’s gotta be something we can do for that!”

“These are active labor contractions, which typically can last for a duration of four to eight hours.  I am sure Doctor Banner has analgesic remedies to offer, but in the meantime, might I suggest a massage, particularly of the lower back.  Cool compresses can provide topical relief, and visualization or meditation techniques can aid in distracting the mind.  Other women find walking, even a short distance, can both mitigate the discomfort–”

 _“Discomfort?”_ Natasha gasped in shock.

“–while perhaps speeding the labor process along.”

Could the AI sound any more annoyingly clinical?  Or downplay this any further?  Steve’s forehead crinkled in puzzlement, and he looked down at her.  “You want to try any of that?”

Before she could answer, there was a knock at the door.  Natasha grimaced, feeling another contraction starting in the floor of her pelvis.  Muscles tightening and contorting.  “Don’t let them in,” she managed through gritted teeth.  “Unless that’s Banner with drugs, _no._   No one.”  She didn’t want _anyone_ more involved in this than strictly had to be.  It was terrifying and embarrassing enough.

Steve seemed torn between staying with her and getting the door, but another knock had him darting across the room.  He cracked open the door.  Natasha struggled to listen over the pounding of her heart.  It was Sam, she thought, asking how things were going.  Wondering if there was anything he could do.  Offering to bring food, even though it was after eleven o’clock.  She couldn’t follow much more than that, moaning and curling onto her left side a little as the next contraction wracked its way through her.  Sometime later (it felt like hours but it was only a matter of seconds) Steve was back.  “Alright.  Sam’s going to get the ice.  Here.”  He took her hand again.  “You got this, love.”

_I can do this._

The contraction waned a minute or so later, and Natasha breathed as deeply as she could.  “It’s alright,” Steve soothed.  “Can you turn over?”  He sat on the bed beside her.  It was just big enough for him to settle close to her as she rolled onto her left side with a groan.  She jerked just a bit but then stilled as his hands settled on her back just above her hips.  He immediately started massaging, gently but firmly, running his fingers down her spine from her neck to her bottom, pressing with the heel of his palm everywhere he felt tension.  She was stiff at first; that feeling of vulnerability was so hard to overcome, but this was hardly the first back rub he’d given her given the discomforts of pregnancy, and it took only a sigh to melt into his touch.  He was thorough, hard when he needed to be and tender every other second, his artist’s fingers surprisingly deft as he worked through the knots in her back.  “It’s alright.”

“Mmmm.  Oh, God.”  The next contraction was coming.

“I see it,” he said.  She reached behind him for one of his hands, and he took her shaking fingers.  He let her pull his arm around her to her belly.  He’d been so hesitant to touch her there where he _never_ had been before.  She smiled weakly at that, at the quintessential male squeamishness over the miracle of female reproduction, and held him tighter when the contraction grew stronger.  “What do you want to visualize?”

“Wh-what?”

“Visualize.  You know, take your mind off it.  Like JARVIS said.”  His breath was warm against her shoulder as he pressed a kiss there.  “Our island?  Honeymoon?”  She shook her head.  That was too much of a reminder of _another_ island where things hadn’t been so pleasant or, conversely, a reminder of feeling so good that this seemed like torture.  “DC?”  His apartment.  So quiet and isolated.  The long days living together, making love, loving each other.  Sweet contentment.  But with DC came so many bad memories that she couldn’t tolerate that now.  So she shook her head again.  “How about them?  You think she’s going to look like you?  I hope she does.”

“She’s… like you…”

“No.  You.  I want her to be just like you.”  God, what was he even saying?  “And for some reason whenever I picture him…  God help me, I picture a little Tony Stark.”

She barked out a laugh at that.  “You’re supposed to be making this better!”

He chuckled.  “Anthony, Jr.”

“Rogers!” she gasped as his teasing.  But it was working, easing the pain, and he knew it.

“Breathe now,” he softly ordered.  “I’ve got you, and I’m holding on.”  She nodded, inhaling and exhaling, working through it.  He breathed with her, helping her keep the rhythm.  Seconds passed.  _It’s over_ , was what she thought after that and she could finally focus again on Steve’s left hand rubbing her back and his other lightly squeezing her clenching fingers.  “Another one down,” he murmured.  “You’re doing great.”

That annoyed her again (God, she was so prickly and emotional) but before she could say anything, there was _another_ knock at the door.  Steve groaned, getting up (and for how she’d wanted to smack him for saying that she was doing great – _rah rah rah –_ she immediately whimpered that he was gone).  He sprinted back to the door, breathlessly cracking it open.  Natasha pushed herself up just enough to look and listen.  A low, familiar tone, the timbre of a deep voice.  It was…  _God._   It was Thor this time.  “Steven, how does she fare?”

“She fares fine.  It’s fine.  We’re good.  What’s up?”

“Samuel claimed you requested this.”  There was the sound of something jingling in a metal container.  The ice.  Right.

“Right,” Steve said.  “Thanks.”

“Have you any news you wish me to convey?”

“News?”

“Of the babes.  How the birthing process is progressing.  The others are… restless.”

“Oh, no.  Nothing’s happening yet.”  Oh, yes it was.  Natasha grimaced, sinking back down wearily as she felt another contraction building up.  “We’re fine.  JARVIS said it could be hours.  You haven’t seen Bruce, have you?  ’Cause it would be awfully nice if he could come back.  Not that anything’s wrong, really, but for… Nat’s peace of mind.”  _Don’t you dare, Rogers._   “And mine,” he added, like he’d heard her unspoken warning.

“You do seem most rattled.  On Asgard it is customary for a child’s sire to lavish gifts upon his laboring mate, luxuries and comforts, until such time that the child crowns in the birth canal, and then he is the one who must–”

She didn’t need to hear any more of this, and she had a feeling Steve didn’t, either.  “Steve!” she cried, sounding a little more desperate than she needed to.

“Gotta go!”  Steve was so flummoxed he actually shoved the container of ice back at Thor and shut the door.  He ran back to the bed.  “What? What?”

“Saving you,” she gasped.

“Don’t scare me like that!” he admonished.  Her face twisted.  “Coming again?”

She nodded feebly, reaching for him.  Sweat beaded on her brow with the rising tide of another contraction.  “Oh, God.  How can it hurt so much?” _How can a few measly centimeters_ hurt _so much?_

“You can do this.  Breathe.”  She didn’t even bother speaking, trying to do just that.  They were getting stronger.  At least, she thought they were.  It was hard to tell.  Her body was tingling all over, nerves firing in discordance, and it was a little difficult to figure out the end from the beginning.  The serum was still numbing things she believed, easing one moment into the next, but it could only do so much.  Steve’s hand was on her back again, massaging her through the contraction.  She gripped the rail of the bed so hard her wrist shook.  “It’s okay.  You can do this, Nat.  I know you can.  You’re so strong, so strong, and you know what?  You’re ready.  You didn’t even need me to figure that out.  You’re so ready, love.  So ready.  You can do this.  You got this.  You–”

“Steven!”

“Right.  Sorry.  Babbling.  I’ll stop.”

In the quiet that followed, she breathed through the contractions.  It hurt, but she could manage this.  Steve stayed right there, rubbing her back, quiet but steadfast, breathing with her and holding her and maintaining constant physical contact.  It was exactly what she needed, and she labored through the following long minutes, stiffening through the pain, breathing evenly to ground herself, and sighing as it relented so she could rest.

For one crazy, crazy second, she thought she could doze off.  It was lulling now, and maybe in one of these precious gaps, she could close her eyes and let herself go for a moment.  It was silly and stupid and probably impossible, but it was the middle of the night and she was tired and–

Another knock.  Her eyes popped open.  “Seriously?” she moaned.

Steve was already up again, bolting to the door to quiet the interruption before it ruined the rhythm they had now.  It was too late for that.  “Hey, Cap.”  _No.  Not him._   “Just, uh, checking in.  Making sure you guys have everything you need.”  She could practically hear Tony’s smile, picturing it behind closed eyelids.  “You need anything?  Because I can get it.  Food.”

“Nat can’t eat.”

“Alcohol?”

“No.”

“Want movies?  Music?  JARVIS said you guys were watching _Game of Thrones._   Want that?”

“God, no.  No.  Thanks.”

“Funny YouTube videos.  A few hours of watching He-Man sing ‘What’s Up’ should knock anyone out.”

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

“4 Non Blondes?  Masters of the Universe?”

“Bruce,” Steve said in exasperation.  “You know where he is?”

“He’s coming.  Should be up soon.  He went to get help.”

Natasha stiffened.  “Help?” Steve asked.

“Don’t worry.  This woman’s a doctor.  A really good one.  And she works for me.  She’s sworn to secrecy.”  Steve hesitated, which fairly well mirrored how Natasha was feeling.  _Another doctor?_   She didn’t want _anyone else_ involved with this!  It was already too much, too overwhelming, too fast, too… _everything._   “I think he’s having cold feet about handling not one but two super serum enhanced newborns at the same time by himself.  Understandable, really.  You sure I can’t do anything?  I’m not a fan of sitting on my ass and waiting.  I don’t think any of us are.”

Steve paused.  “You guys should go back to bed.  Really, it’s fine.  We’re okay.”

There was another voice.  Sam again.  “Dude, no one’s sleeping tonight.”

Thor.  “As far as we are concerned, these children are akin to our own.  We have all been invested in their healthy arrival into this world since we learned of them, so you must understand that we intend to wait until we hear their first cries.”

Tony humphed.  “Well, they intend to.  I intend to sleep.”  There was a light smack.  “Ow!”

“Here’s some coffee, Steve.”  That was Pepper.  “It’s black.  And the ice for Natasha.  And some toiletries and things.  You have JARVIS tell us right away if you need anything else.”

Steve was (unsurprisingly) uncomfortable with their concern and attention.  “Pepper, you don’t need to wait on–”

“Yes, _we do._   You’re family.”  Once upon a time (not that long ago in fact), that sort of thing would have bothered Natasha very much.  Now, with her body aching and stretching and her emotions twisting inside her, she felt her eyes well up with tears.  _Family._   She was never alone, not through anything.  Not through Steve being sick or the months before that.  Somehow, through all she’d suffered in her life, she’d ended up _here_ , in labor and surrounded by her friends and family, by people who loved her.  And that legacy she’d been afraid of, where the twins had no grandparents, no aunts or uncles, no heritage…  The legacy she’d bestow upon her children.  _This_ was it.  This group of misfits and warriors and heroes.  Her children’s family.

It wasn’t often that Black Widow was thankful for the way things had turned out, but more and more of late she was.

Steve was back a moment later.  He set a thermos of coffee (really expensive coffee, it smelled like) on the little rolling table near her bed.  Natasha was still turned away from him, the pillow damp beneath her face.  “Nat, you okay?”

She sniffled, wiping at her eyes.  “Fine.”

He came around so he could see her.  There was no hiding she was crying, and when he noticed, his face fractured in worry.  He crouched so that he was level with her.  “Is it that bad?  What can I do?”

Suddenly it all came pouring out, like that little moment of weakness had compromised all that remained of her defenses.  “I can’t do this.  I can’t.  I’m scared.  I can’t do this, Steve.  I don’t know how.  I don’t – what if something happens?  I don’t know how to – how to do – what if – I can’t.  I can’t!”

This was different than before, than all her other moments of doubt.  As odd as it was, these were _normal_ fears, for lack of a better description, not the deep set _rejection_ of motherhood she’d been feeling since learning she was pregnant but the simple insecurities of a young woman about to go through the pain and tumult of labor and delivery for the first time.  He realized that, and he smiled a watery smile.  “Hey, it’s okay.  I’m scared, too.  I’m terrified.”  He’d said that before, back before he’d gotten sick, and she hadn’t admitted it at the time, but it had made her feel better.  It did now, too.  “But it’s going to be okay.  They’re coming, Nat.  In a few hours they’ll be here.”

“I know,” she whispered.  There were a thousand things that could go _wrong._ “But what if–”

“Don’t worry about that.  Don’t worry about anything.  It’s fine.  You can do this.  You have no idea – _no idea_ – how beautiful you are right now.”  He swept his hand down her face.  Normally she’d meet that sort of drivel with a snarky comeback or cold rebuttal, but now she couldn’t do anything other than believe him.  There was nothing but genuine honesty and adoration in his eyes.  There always was when he said something like this, but this was one of the few times she whole-heartedly embraced it.  “You’re beautiful and you’re strong and you’re brave.  These babies…  They’re so lucky already to have you as their mother.  They have no idea what a wonderful life they have ahead of them.”  She gasped a sob.  “And I know it hurts, but you can beat it.  This pain?  It’s a _good_ pain.”  He took her hands in his and kissed them.  “It’s a pain that has an end.  It’s a pain that’s doing something wonderful.  It’s helping our babies be born.  So don’t fight it.  Don’t be afraid of it or anything else.” 

She nodded.  A shift in the babies’ heartbeats had Steve looking back at the monitors.  He nodded before returning his gaze to hers.  “Another contraction’s coming, okay?  You’re doing great.”

“Steve…” she moaned.

“I know,” he said around an embarrassed laugh.  “Shut up, right?”

She could hardly get the words out before the force of the contraction struck.  “I love you.”

His expression slackened in surprise, and he gave a little laugh.  “I love you, too.”  He rubbed wetness from his cheeks and held her hands tight, his thumbs sweeping in gentle, soothing circles over her knuckles.  Closing her eyes, she hauled in a deep breath through her nose, held it inside, and then slowly blew it out through her mouth.  “There you go, Nat.  Breathe.  You can do this.”

_I can do this._

* * *

Bruce finally returned maybe twenty minutes later.  Actually it was hard to tell how long it had been.  Steve had developed this weird relationship with time where it felt as slow as an eternity while it was passing by, but when he looked back it had disappeared in a blink and he was shocked to see they’d been there for nearly a couple of hours already.  The physicist cracked open the door after giving a warning knock and slipped inside.  “What the hell, Bruce?” Natasha gasped.  She was in the midst of another bad contraction; they were very nearly coming one on top of another at this point.  Steve had no idea what that meant (if it meant anything at all), but he figured that indicated things were moving along at least.  And he figured if Banner didn’t have a good excuse as to where he’d been for most of the last hour, he was going to have hell to pay.

Bruce was flustered and apologetic.  “I’m so sorry.  I just didn’t feel comfortable dealing with this by myself.  You know, now that it’s actually happening.  Okay, how’re you doing?”

“How’s it… _look_ like I’m doing!” Natasha yelled.  She arched her back and collapsed back down into the bed, gasping and panting and sweating like crazy.  Steve winced as he squeezed his hand even tighter.  His fingers were caught in a death grip of which he hadn’t thought her capable.  He didn’t dare try to extricate himself from it; these last few minutes as the pain had ramped up again, she’d been breathing fire, and he’d done everything to make himself as small as possible.  Mood swings?  This didn’t quite compare.

“Okay, okay, sorry,” Bruce stammered, raising his hands in defeat.  “Sorry.  I didn’t want to give you anything until – well.  Hold on.”  He ran back outside.

Natasha popped up off the pillow.  “What?” she gasped. “Did he just leave again?”

Steve floundered.  “I don’t know.”  He reached for the damp washcloth, rewetting it and setting it across her forehead.  “It’s alright.”

“Don’t tell me it’s alright!  It’s not alright!”

“Okay, it’s not alright.”

“What’re you doing?”

“Um…  Mopping up…”  _Your sweat._   He winced.  “Here?”

She took the washcloth and wiped her own face with it.  Her hair was sticking to her cheeks and brow in strands.  “Oh, God.  Oh, God.  God God God – _Steve!_ ”

The contractions were barreling down on her without much warning at this point.  The regular, slow(ish) rhythm of them had turned into an almost continual assault, and if the serum had been helping her rest between them before, it wasn’t doing much now.  Truth be told, Steve was terrified (okay, he’d been terrified since he’d seen her water had broken, but now he was _really_ terrified).  He had to amend his earlier opinion.  Things weren’t just moving along.  They actually seemed to be happening really quickly.  His stomach was in knots and he could hardly think straight and–

Natasha actually screamed a little.  It was a choked off thing, like she was realizing what she was doing and had decided that was too much so she’d clamped down on it at the last second.  His brain kicked into gear at that, at how much she was suffering.  “Alright.  It’s okay.  Don’t cry, love.”

“Don’t you ‘love’ me!” she snarled.

His face felt to be perpetually locked into a wince.  “Sweetie?”

She glared at him.  “Don’t you dare!”

“Ma’am?” he ventured, trying to keep the mood light and hopefully distracting.

“I swear, Rogers, I am going to make you pay for this!”

That was probably more terrifying than it should have been.  Thankfully the door opened again, and this time Bruce came back with a few young women with him.  The first was Asian, beautiful, with sleek, black hair pulled into a neat bun.  Her brown eyes were older and wiser than her years, and she smiled cautiously.  She was already wearing scrubs.  “Natasha, Steve,” Bruce said, “this is Doctor Helen Cho.”

Cho came closer and quickly held out her hand for Steve to shake.  Her hand was small, dainty almost, but her grip was sure and steady.  “Nice to meet you, Captain.  Mrs. Rogers.”  Nobody corrected her, even though both Bruce and Steve winced and prepared for some sort of vitriolic reminder that Natasha wasn’t “Mrs.” _Anyone._   She was too far gone, panting through another contraction and cutting the circulation off to Steve’s fingers.

“Bruce, please, can’t you give her something?” Steve pleaded.  “She’s in a lot of pain.  The serum was making it better before, but now–”

“Now things are really moving,” Doctor Cho said with a smile.  “That’s good.  And, yes, we can.”

Bruce was already donning a gown and latex gloves, and he came over with a kit of tubing and needles that Steve had seen so many times ( _way_ too many times in fact) in the past that he recognized it immediately as an IV.  The physicist placed it into Natasha’s hand in no time, and he immediately injected something into the port.  “That’ll help.  You’ll still feel the contractions, but it will definitely take the edge off right away.”

Natasha moaned, writhing uselessly on the bed a moment more, and Steve could hardly breathe as he watched her and prayed this did something to alleviate her misery.  It did.  Just as Bruce claimed, it was almost immediate.  The tightness of her limbs relaxed, and she breathed easier.  It was remarkable how quickly she went limp with relief.  “Oh, thank you,” she whispered.  She closed her eyes and licked her lips.  “Thank you, thank you…”

“Doctor Banner, would you mind getting the ultrasound ready?” Doctor Cho asked.  She, too, was donning some gloves.  She stood near the edge of the bed and looked down at Natasha.  “Doing better?”

Natasha nodded, smiling a dopey, drugged out smile.  Steve couldn’t quite believe it how complacent she suddenly was.  “What kind of doctor are you again?” he asked.

Helen smiled.  “I’m a geneticist and a microbiologist.”

“And you work for Tony?”

“Not exactly,” she corrected.  One of her assistants came over with more tools, and Bruce was wheeling the familiar cart containing the ultrasound closer.  Things seemed to be moving in a blur, and the other nurse was approaching and lowering the bed.  Steve was having a hard time keeping track of it all.  “I work at the U-Gin Genetics Laboratory in Seoul.  Our company very often collaborates with Stark Industries.”

Bruce gave Steve a small smile.  “You know Tony.  He thinks everyone works for him.”

This was all too much, too fast for Steve.  His mind was going a million directions at once.  “And you know how to deliver a baby?  Babies?”

Helen’s smile turned disarming.  “I have a great deal of experience with it.  Before I fully embraced genetics, I worked in numerous NICUs and birthing wards during my residency.”  She seemed… young for that.  But Steve knew the sort of minds to which Bruce and Tony were attracted.  She couldn’t be anything less than a genius.  “I admit it’s been a few years, but I think I can help you, if you’ll allow me to.”

“Trust me, Steve,” Bruce said, drawing Steve’s attention, “she’s more than qualified and capable.”

Natasha suddenly perked up as unfamiliar hands started undoing the elastic straps of the monitors.  “But you’re not leaving, right, Bruce?  You’re staying.”  She seemed frantic, reaching for Bruce’s hand as he prepared the scanner.  Her eyes were bright, pained yet and a little hazy with the medication, but very directed.  “You’re still my doctor.”

Bruce’s face went lax a moment, surprised, perhaps, by the fervor of Natasha’s voice.  Maybe he didn’t believe himself to be worth it.  He looked at Steve, and all Steve could do was nod.  Then he smiled.  “Of course I’m staying.”

Natasha visibly relaxed again, letting go of Bruce and allowing the nurses to free her of the monitors.  “Can you scooch down here a little?” Doctor Cho asked.  Steve slid an arm around Natasha and helped her shimmy down the bed.  Cho moved the sheet covering her lower half.  “Here’s what I’d like to do.  I want to take a quick look and check how things are progressing.  After that, we’ll do the ultrasound and see how the twins are positioned.  You may have a few options at that point.  Bruce told me that Twin A, the boy, was in a good position last week.  If that’s still the case, we can try a vaginal delivery for him.  If not, we’ll likely have to do a C-section.  Okay?”

That was a lot to take in.  Normally Steve could follow anything with lightning quick mental agility.  At the moment, all he could do was stumble over the concept of Caesarean section.  He knew basically what that was and that it was safe.  But it was surgery.  Natasha, thankfully, seemed more capable of thinking than he was, despite the pain.  “What about her?”

Cho smiled gently, trying to ease the worry she heard in Natasha’s voice.  “If she’s not in a good position, we can try to turn her after we deliver him.  She may also turn on her own during her brother’s delivery.  That sometimes happens.  If we can’t get her into a favorable position, again, we’d need to perform a C-section.”

“And that’s all… okay?” Steve asked.

Helen nodded.  “Routine.  Births with multiples are always more complicated, but the babies are strong and healthy.  I don’t see any reason for concern.”

“What about the serum?” Natasha asked.  She was struggling through another contraction, but she was getting more and more clear-headed by the second.

“It’s an unknown,” Helen conceded, “but, again, I don’t see any reason for concern at this point.  Let’s see what we’re dealing with first before we jump to any conclusions.”  Natasha nodded, gasping and falling flat on the bed.  Worry burst through Steve again.  God, it was unbearable watching her suffer without there being anything he could do about it.  He’d been afraid of that for weeks now, how hard it would be, and it was pretty much as bad as he’d imagined.

There was movement at the end of the bed.  “Legs up a little, Mrs. Rogers.”

“Natasha!” Natasha corrected shortly.  “Not Mrs. Rogers!”

Cho didn’t seem bothered by that.  “I’m sorry.  Try to relax.”

Natasha gasped, shaking her head.  “Steve!  Steve…”

“I’m right here,” he assured, taking her hand and letting her squeeze the life out him anew.  “It’s alright.”  She groaned, tears bleeding from the corners of her eyes.  “Easy.  Easy.”

“Let your legs fall to the sides when you’re ready.  I’m going to wait until after the contraction passes.  It’ll be more comfortable that way.”  Helen was down between Natasha’s legs – part of the bed was missing now maybe?  Steve couldn’t see and didn’t know and wasn’t going to worry about it.  “You say when.”

The room was silent while Natasha panted her way through the pain.  She was calmer about it once more, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth.  Steve couldn’t help but mimic her.  He had to admit it _did_ help, at least with his own anxiety.  After a minute or so, she relaxed again.  “Okay,” she whispered.  “Okay.”

Cho moved fast.  And she kept talking.  “I apologize for taking so long to get here.  I arrived in the city late this afternoon from Tokyo, and I accidentally forgot to turn my phone back on.”

Steve shook his head.  He couldn’t see what she was doing, but Natasha was wincing and squirming in discomfort.  “You didn’t need to come here in the middle of the night–”

“And miss the chance to be a part of the birth of Captain America and Black Widow’s children?  Are you kidding?”  Steve gave a surprised laugh at that, still flabbergasted at all of this, and looked down at Natasha.  She was shaking harder, trying so hard to be brave.  He brushed the hair off her brow.  It all felt like so little, paltry nothings compared to what she was doing.  “Okay.  Wow.  You’re more than eight centimeters dilated.”

“What?” Natasha gasped.  “No.”

“No, it’s fine,” Helen soothed.  “It’s good.  You’re having _very_ effective labor.  And I can see his head.  He’s right there, ready and raring to go.”  She flashed a gentle smile, but both Natasha and Steve were perceptive.  She was surprised at how fast this was going.  All said and done, Natasha had barely been in labor for two hours.  “Bruce, let’s take a look.”  She turned to her assistants.  “Prep for an epidural.”  Natasha shook her head.  “We need to now or there may not be time.  And if we need to do a C-section, we need to have that in place.”

Bruce was right there, handling the ultrasound machine.  “It’s going to be fine, Natasha,” he swore.  The monitor winked to life, and he squirted the gel on Natasha’s belly.  Steve could hardly focus; the nurses were moving rapidly, and Cho was peeling off her gloves, throwing them into the trash, and quickly nearing the head of the bed.  “Placentas look good.  Cords look good.  Fetal heart rates are right on the money.  Twin B’s membranes are intact.”  Steve couldn’t see the screen, and he really couldn’t spend the time looking though he desperately wanted to.  Natasha was grasping him tight, and it was obvious she wanted his eyes on her.  “Twin A is vertex.  Twin B’s transverse,” Bruce said, gliding the probe across Natasha’s huge stomach.

Helen examined the image closely.  “Yes,” she agreed.  “Things look favorable.  We can still try to turn her.”

“What does that mean?” Steve asked, shaking his head.

Bruce adjusted the screen so he could see and laid a gloved across the top of Natasha’s swollen midsection.  “She’s here, straight across, laying laterally.  It’s contraindicative for vaginal delivery.”

“What does _that_ mean?” Natasha demanded, growing increasingly upset.  Steve scrambled for his own composure, comfortingly stroking Natasha’s hand with his own.

“It’s fine,” both Cho and Banner replied at the same time.  They looked at each other, and then Helen backed up slightly and let Bruce take over.  “It’s fine.  All it means is the same thing Helen just said.  We can’t deliver her the natural way with how she’s positioned inside you.  So we can either forego even trying a vaginal delivery and just do a C-section now, or we can deliver him, try to turn her or see if she turns on her own, and go from there.  It’s your call, Natasha.  Either way, with the way things are going, you’re having these babies in the next hour.”

Everything seemed to stop.  Everything.  The motion around them.  The monitors and machines beeping and swishing and flashing.  Thoughts.  Hearts.  Time.  Everything held still.  Steve couldn’t breathe, and Natasha went _white._   Her eyes were wide and wet.  _This is it.  This is really happening._   Everything they’d done together, gone through together, _lived_ through together, as partners and friends and lovers, as husband and wife, was coming down to this moment.  Steve gasped a rough breath that was mostly a sob.  He couldn’t do much to hide it, not that or the hot rush of pride and excitement and joy and _love_ in his heart that went straight to the smile on his face.  Natasha was watching him, waiting for him to decide.  He shrugged.  “It’s your call,” he repeated breathlessly.  “I’m just along for the ride.”

She gave something that sounded like a laugh and a sob mixed together as well.  They were all watching her, the nurses and the two doctors.  Steve was, too.  She was watching the screen, at the twins who were ready to come into the world.  After a moment, she drew a deep breath, and Steve could see her centering herself.  It always amazed him, watching her find her strength.  Watching her find who she really was.  She turned to Steve and smiled.  “I want to try it.”  _That a girl._

“No C-section unless we need to?” Bruce clarified.  Natasha nodded firmly.  He looked surprised.  “You sure?”

“I’m sure.  I can do this.  So can they.”

Bruce stood still for a moment like he hadn’t anticipated this choice.  Steve had.  Natasha was tough, tougher than any of them, and if she set her mind to something, she could do it.  That was why he’d never doubted she could be a good mother, a _wonderful_ mother.  Once she knew what she wanted, what she needed, she’d get it.  Once she found her courage, her good heart and brilliant spirit, she’d fight through anything for those she loved.  And she could do this.

“Alright,” Bruce said.  “Let’s go ahead then.”

There was more activity.  The nurses were gathering things, a lot of things.  Steve watched, half his attention on his wife as she labored and half on the flurry of things going on.  Bruce wiped Natasha’s stomach clean of the gel.  Then he was talking to Helen, and both of them were working quickly to get prepared.  This was it.  Months of excitement and worry and anticipation.  Of waiting.  Hopes and dreams that he never knew he’d had before.  Natasha’s soft voice pulled him back.  “You ready?”

He turned to her.  She was watching him with nothing but love in her eyes.  He smiled.  “Yeah.  You?”

She nodded, smiling, too.  “Yeah.”  He leaned in to kiss her.  She was dripping with sweat, damp with it and trembling, but he didn’t care.  And he didn’t care who was watching.  He pulled her as close as he could and closed his eyes.  _This is it._   “I have to go to the bathroom, though.”

He laughed, and for some reason his mind went right back to 1943, to a hidden laboratory in Brooklyn where a little guy was about to go from a simple man to Captain America.  _“It’s probably too late to go to the bathroom, right?”_ This was going to be another transformation.  “Bruce, can she–”

Bruce had overheard.  “Sure.  Go now while we get the epidural ready.  Just make sure she hangs onto you.”

Steve went to the other side of the bed.  Natasha boosted herself up, her hair a complete disaster, wincing and moaning.  Once she was upright, she had to pause a moment to breathe through a contraction.  Steve rubbed her back, letting her lean completely into him.  When it was done, he helped her stand.  She wobbled for a second but got her balance.  “Okay?” he asked, his arm secure around her.

“Yeah,” she murmured.  “Grab that?”  He took the little bag of supplies Pepper had brought and together they walked the few steps across the room to the bathroom.  He gave her some privacy, standing right outside the slightly ajar door in case she needed him, breathing as deeply as he could, trying not to fidget.  The toilet was flushing and the water was running.  A moment later, she came back out, the mess of her red hair somewhat straightened and pulled into a loose pony tail.  Even as flushed and hobbled and sweaty as she was, she looked radiant.

“Ready?” he asked, reaching out to steady her.

She didn’t take one step before crying out.  “Oh, God,” she moaned.  The next whimper came out in Russian; he couldn’t hear what she said, but he knew it was serious.  Her face screwed up into a miserable grimace, and her whole body shook.  “Oh, God!”

“What?  What’s wrong?” Steve cried, his heart thundering in terror.  She couldn’t answer, and suddenly she seemed at war with herself.  She was quaking so bad that he didn’t think twice, scooping her up in his arms and crossing the distance back to the bed in two huge strides.  Horror unlike anything he’d ever known washed over him in cold, agonizing waves.  “Nat!  Nat!”  He set her down.  _“Bruce!”_

“I have to…”  She couldn’t get the words out, arching her back and curling her fists in Steve’s shirt.  “I have to–”

Everyone crowded around the bed.  Bruce was right there.  So was Doctor Cho.  She grabbed Natasha’s bare, tremoring leg.  “You need to push?”

Natasha’s eyes were squeezed shut, and she seemed to fall apart a moment, drowning in the blaring, novel signals her body was trying to give her.  Then she nodded frantically.  “Right now,” she panted.  “Now, now, now–”

“Breathe through it,” Bruce ordered calmly.  “Steve, she needs to breathe through it.  Just for now.  We need to get ready, and if she’s not fully dilated, she could tear–”

Steve didn’t waste a second.  There was frantic activity at the other end of the bed, but as much as he wanted to know what was going on, he had to take care of her now.  He cupped her face in his hands and made her look at him.  “Breathe through it, baby.  Look at me.  You can do it.”

“Hurts…” she moaned.  “Hurts so much!”

“I know, but it’s almost over.  Just breathe.  In deep.  Out.  Come on.”  He didn’t blink, didn’t look away, didn’t let her go.  “Hold onto me.  Come on, Nat.”

She did.  She held on _hard_.  “I want them out,” she sobbed, stuttering over her ragged breaths.

He laughed little.  “They will be.”

“Let’s move her,” Cho declared, and suddenly, just like that, they were going.  Someone was unlocking the wheels of the bed and without a warning, Helen and her team were pushing Natasha out into the hallway.

“Steve!” Natasha cried, reaching back for him with wide, terrified eyes.

He scrambled to get to her, the feeling of her fingers in his such a relief.  It was hard to keep up with them as they took her out into the corridor of infirmary, rushing past the rest of the Avengers in a blur and heading down to what Steve knew was the surgical suite.  Bruce seemed to realize his unspoken horror.  “It’s just a precaution!” he called, both to Steve and the others who were getting up out of their chairs with white faces and wide eyes.  Steve could hear Tony and Sam calling after him, hear Thor’s worried questions, and there was something Bruce was saying in response, how they needed to be ready _just in case_ they needed to do an emergency Caesarean.  The thought made his heart skip a beat.  _That’s not going to happen.  She said there was no reason to worry._   He felt dizzy and sick with it, though, until he remembered to swallow it down because _Natasha needed him._

They burst into another room, clean and very brightly lit.  There were more nurses in there and a load of equipment.  Monitors and tables and tools.  Things for the twins.  _Everything_ doubled, including the number of people.  He tried not to look at any of it, tried not to think about any of it.  Natasha was pulverizing his hand.  “Breathe through it,” he mumbled, shaking his head at the controlled chaos of activity.  Back in his time, this sort of thing…  Fathers weren’t typically involved.  Yet here he was, about to take part in the birth of his children.  It was overwhelming.  “We both just gotta breathe through it.”

“Captain,” one the nurses said, an older lady who was wide-eyed and shocked (not because of what was happening so much but because of _who_ it was happening _to_ ).  She handed Steve a gown, which he numbly put on as they maneuvered Natasha onto another bed that was firmer, inclined, and open at the end.

Natasha threw her head back with a cry.  The nurses were right there, trying to get the monitors on her stomach again, one for each twin, and Doctor Cho was down between her thighs.  Bruce was right there with her.  “Epidural?” she whined.  “Where’s–”

“No time,” Bruce replied apologetically.

Natasha whimpered, clawing for her husband.  Steve came right back to her.  “I need to push,” she cried.  “I need to.  I need to!”

“Not yet,” Doctor Cho warned.  She was donning a gown, fresh gloves, a face mask, and a plastic shield on top of that that reflected the light too brightly.  “I know it’s hard, but you need to breathe through these, Natasha.  We need to make sure everything is okay.”

“No,” she whimpered.

Steve pried her hands from his gown before she ripped it, holding them tight in his own instead.  He got her attention again.  The contractions were coming fast, and her _whole body_ shook with them, with what Steve could only imagine was an overwhelming, driving, undeniable need _to push_.  He swallowed thickly.  “You can do it.  You can.”

“I can’t do this!”

He pressed close to her.  “I’d do anything to take your place right now,” he whispered into her hair.  She seemed to be beyond words, beyond anything but moaning and panting roughly against his cheek.  “But you know what?  I don’t think I could do it.  I’m not as strong as you.  Not nearly.  You saved my life, Nat.  So many times.  And now you’re going to give them life.  That’s…”  _Beautiful.  Incredible.  Astounding.  So much more than you ever thought you could do._ “… _amazing_.”  She shuddered again, wailing out a sob into his neck.  “Breathe.  You can do it.  You’re almost there.  Almost there.”

She cried out again.  Steve held her tighter and prayed for this to end.  She was out of her mind with it now, surrendering and just trying to hold on.  She had to be.

Or not.  “Your son!” she ground out.  “Can’t… can’t even wait a second!”

Steve laughed, his voice cracking.  He chanced looking down to the end of the bed.  There was blood on the sheets and a lot of fluid and Doctor Cho was quick and methodical.  “She’s fully dilated.  She can push.”

Natasha wept and panted her relief wetly into Steve’s shoulder.  Bruce went to her other side.  “Okay, let’s get her up now,” he said.  “Help her sit.”  Steve was already doing that, taking Natasha’s left hand and putting his arm around her shoulders to offer her even more strength.  Bruce was helping her on his side, holding her leg for her.  As weird as that was, Steve did the same.  He tried hard not to look.   Bruce leaned down in front of Natasha, trying to get her attention.  “Natasha, focus on my voice for a second.”  Her eyes were squeezed shut, but she nodded.  “When you feel the urge to push, go ahead and take a breath and bear down.  Keep pushing as long as you can or until the urge goes away.  If you need to take another breath, do it.  Okay?  If we tell you to stop, stop.”

“Everything looks really good,” Helen said.  “Start whenever you want.”

The twins’ heartbeats, both of them, were steady and sure.  Natasha seemed to waver for a few seconds, like she was teetering between going forward and complete collapse.  Steve watched her struggle, rubbing a hand down her up and down her back.  Then her face scrunched up and her lips pulled back from her teeth in effort.  “There you go,” Doctor Cho encouraged.  “Push.”

Only a few seconds in, Natasha faltered and stopped, going limp against Steve.  “It’s alright,” Bruce promised.  “It’s a process, not a race.  Pushing can take forty-five minutes or an hour for a first time mother.”  Steve could have hit him; that wasn’t the thing to be saying to someone who was already scared and in a lot of pain.  “Try again.”

When the next contraction came, she did.  It was obvious this one took her by surprise because she cried more than breathed and seemed frustrated.  “Okay, Natasha.  Let’s try this.  When you feel the urge to push, push.  Bruce will count to ten.  When he stops, you take a breath.  If you feel like trying again, try again.  You can probably get three good pushes out of a contraction, but don’t worry if you don’t.”  Natasha nodded at Cho’s instructions, sweat glistening on her face.  “Okay.”

They went with that.  Steve chewed his lip until it hurt, listening to Bruce count steadily, watching Natasha concentrate.  She was working hard; he could see that, feel that in the way her body quivered, her muscles taut and firm.  When Bruce reached ten, Natasha blew out the breath she’d been holding.  “Another one,” Bruce instructed.  He was glancing at the monitors, too, watching the contraction’s progress and both the twins’ heartbeats.  Natasha obediently drew another breath and pushed.  The veins in her neck stood out, her heartbeat fast where his own fingers were digging into her thigh.  “Okay, you’re doing great.  Another one.”

“You can do it, Nat,” he heard himself lamely add.

She pushed hard.  “Okay, easy,” Helen suddenly announced.  Steve couldn’t help but look, worry spiking through him.  “Stop, Natasha.”

“Stop,” Bruce said again.

“He’s starting to crown already,” the doctor announced.  Her assistants were right there, handing her pads and towels.  “You’re either a champion at this or the serum has eased the way somehow, because it probably shouldn’t have been this easy.”

Steve turned to Bruce.  “I thought you said forty-five minutes!”

Bruce shrugged helplessly.  “At least it’ll be quick?”

“Wait,” Helen advised. “Breathe through the next one.”

Natasha shook her head.  “I can’t,” she moaned.

“Yes, you can,” Steve assured.  Natasha cried out, shaking again, not quite sobbing though it seemed more from lack of energy than lack of want.  Steve held her leg tighter, and his eyes went right where he hadn’t wanted them to.

He could see the baby’s head.  _The baby’s head._   His breath caught in his throat.  He’d never counted himself as anything close to squeamish, but something about _this_ made his gut clench and his heart stop and the room spin just a little.  It wasn’t so much that it was upsetting.  It was…  There were no words.  Amazing, again.  Incredible. “Nat,” he whispered.  “I can see him.”

Natasha’s eyes popped open and sought his with astounding clarity, and when they saw each other, it seemed to ground her again.  Motivate her to fight.  “Okay, big push on the next contraction,” Helen declared.  “You’re doing great.”

Now that he’d _seen_ what was happening, Steve couldn’t look away.  And he could see what the contractions were doing, what it _meant_ as Natasha fought and struggled to bring their son into this world.  His mind went blank, the world bright and closed tight around him as if nothing else existed, and he glanced between her and their baby and _watched._

It didn’t take much more.  “You’re almost there, Natasha,” Helen said.  “One more big push.  Take a deep breath.  You can do it.”

She did.  She squeezed her eyes shut, her entire body shaking with the effort, once more her lips pulled back from the white of her teeth and her muscles tight and powerful.  Steve held his breath.  Natasha screamed and went limp against him.

And that was it.

_Their son was born._

The doctor pulled something small and white and red away, and the nurses were immediately there with things.  Gloved hands were quickly moving.  Steve couldn’t see.  Why wasn’t the baby crying?  What was happening?  _Why isn’t the baby crying?_

There was soft gurgle, a whimper, and then the newborn started to _wail._

Steve choked on his breath.  “Is he okay?” Natasha moaned, holding to his hand tightly.  “Is he okay?”  He looked down on her, her face drenched in sweat and her eyes hazy with a rush of endorphins.  He let her lower her leg a bit, let her sink against the bed.  “Is he–”

“He’s fine, Natasha,” Doctor Cho managed over the baby’s screaming.  “He’s absolutely fine.  Newborn male, time… 12:02 am, March 20th.”  She looked pleased.  “First day of spring.  Barely made it.”

Natasha sobbed a little, breathing heavily and burying her face in Steve’s arm.  Such a wave of pride, of love and excitement, blasted over Steve that his knees nearly failed him.  The room spun more, and he tasted salt on his tongue and realized his tears were wet on his lips.  He didn’t know why he was crying.  He hadn’t done anything.  He hadn’t done anything to deserve this, to deserve anything so wonderful _as this._   He hadn’t–

“Here, Dad,” Helen said with a smile.  “You want to cut the cord?”

Now he did black out.  Just a little.

* * *

Things moved in a haze.  Doctor Cho and her nurses were conversing – something about minimal tearing, about the serum already healing damage from the birth.  Something about how remarkable it was.  And then they were pressing gently on Natasha’s lower belly and adding medicines to her IV and she was pushing again.  Once the placenta was out, it was over.

One down.

And that one hadn’t stopped crying.  He sure had a set of lungs on him as one of the nurses took him to a little area that had a warming lamp and a few other tools.  Steve wiped his cheeks again, but the tears kept stubbornly coming.  He watched the little body on the scale.  “Six pounds, fourteen ounces,” the nurse announced.  “Twenty-one inches.”

“Big boy,” Bruce declared happily.

“How’s Twin B doing?” Doctor Cho asked.  She was working quickly, preparing immediately for the next baby.

Bruce looked over the monitors.  “She’s good.  Heartrate is a little slow but nothing I would call distressed.”

“Check the position?”

The ultrasound scanner was back.  “She turned,” Bruce declared as he swept the probe around, watching the monitors.  “Not quite breech.  She’s not down all the way yet.”

Steve glanced at the screen, not knowing what to look at or think at this point.  Helen squinted behind her face mask.  “I can work with breech.  How fast can you assist me with an epidural?”

“Fast,” Bruce said, and they were moving in a blur, grabbing equipment from the nurses.  “Steve, help Natasha get on her left side.”

The contractions had slowed momentarily, so Natasha was more aware, sitting up just a little.  “Can I see him?” she asked.  Steve gathered her into his arms a little, but she pulled back because moving onto her left side took her away from being able to see the baby.  “Steve, I need to–”

“As soon as we get her out,” he promised, hoping that was the case.  He rolled Natasha with the help of one of the nurses, being as gentle as possible.  “Hey, look at me.”  She calmed a little, still obviously a bit dazed and confused, as she focused on his eyes.  He smiled broadly.  “You did it, love.  He’s here and he’s fine and–”

“Hold her just like that, Steve.  Natasha, I need you to stay very still.  Let’s get this done before the contractions get regular again,” Bruce said.  Steve tenderly took Natasha’s shoulder and hip and kept her motionless, mindful of his strength and the bulge of their daughter still inside her.  “Lots of pressure now.”

Again, Steve thought he was pretty good when it came to things making him queasy, but watching them stick a needle into his wife’s spine…  Well.  He averted his gaze back down to Natasha’s wincing face.  “This should only take a minute,” Bruce said.  Together, he and Doctor Cho were attaching some sort of port to the apparatus they’d inserted.  “Relief is coming.”

“Why do we need…”

“Just in case,” Helen assured again.  “Delivering a breech baby is a little riskier than delivering one that’s head down.”

Steve felt Natasha tense up again, though whether from discomfort or fear he couldn’t say.  He couldn’t help a little grimace himself.  All the things he’d read about this beforehand…  It didn’t really compare to how afraid and worried and anxious he was.  He glanced over at the baby crying amidst the nurses taking care of him.  “What about–”

“He’s perfectly healthy,” Bruce assured.  “Let’s focus here first, okay?”  It was hard to do that.  It was hard to do much of anything.  _Along for the ride._   “How are you doing, Natasha?”

Almost all of the pain was gone from Natasha’s face.  She looked loopy, overwhelmed by relief.  “Numb,” she whispered almost blissfully.  “Can’t feel the contractions anymore.”  She gave a crooked smile.  “How come you couldn’t do this before?”

“Blame your son’s impatience,” Bruce said with a grin of his own.  The baby boy was still wailing, making his arrival into this world very well known.  “Now let’s get your daughter born.”

There were tubes that Bruce maneuvered out of the way as they got Natasha repositioned onto her back once more.  She moaned, overwhelmed more than anything it seemed, and panted weakly.  Bruce was handling the ultrasound again as the nurses repositioned the sensors on her stomach.  The fast-paced _swish swish swish_ of the baby girl’s heartbeat was thunderous.  Steve took Natasha’s hand again, petting the sweaty palm of his other hand over the backs of her fingers where they curled over his, and watched the screens.  Bruce was moving the probe fast, so it was hard to see what was happening.  “Her heartrate is still good.  Regular contractions again.  Helen, do you see–”

“Yes.”  Doctor Cho was back between Natasha’s legs.  She looked over to the two frightened parents.  “Natasha, you’re going to feel a lot of pressure.  I’m going to rupture the amniotic sac and then try and turn her all the way into a breech position and get her down into the birth canal.  It’s called an internal podalic version.  It will be uncomfortable, but it should get this moving along fairly quickly.  Okay?”

Natasha nodded.  She looked up at Steve.  He could see how exhausted she was now, but with the pain medication easing everything, she was surprisingly calm and confident.  She smiled at him.  “I’m ready.”

Steve looked back down at Doctor Cho and the nurses who’d come to assist her.  He grimaced when he saw her pick up a hook-like instrument and then pointedly looked away for the rest of that procedure.  A second later Natasha was gripping his hand tighter again, and there was a rush of fluid.  “Okay.  Now deep breath.  If you feel the need to push, breathe through it unless I tell you otherwise.  With the epidural, it shouldn’t be so sharp.”

His eyes went down again of their own accord, but when he saw what Cho was doing, he looked away sharply once more and planted his gaze firmly on Natasha’s face.  He swallowed thickly.  “When you said turn, I thought…”  _Not this._   Not reaching inside and…

“There, Helen,” Bruce said, using the ultrasound to guide the other doctor.  “There.”

“Breathe, Natasha.  Breathe.”  Natasha was shaking with the effort of holding still.  Even with the epidural, this was obviously a miserable experience.  Realizing he was shirking in his duties – the _one_ thing he could do to make any of this better – Steve leaned closer and held Natasha’s hand and thigh tighter.  “Okay.  Easy now.  Slow, deep breaths.”

“Heartrates are good on mom and baby,” one of the nurses announced.

Steve’s eyes widened when he could _see_ the bulge of the baby _turning_ and _move_ lower.  Those little kicks and flutters and shakes he’d been feeling for the last few months?  _Oh, my God._   “Okay, she’s down.  Now, Natasha, when you feel the urge to push, go ahead.  Just like before.”

Natasha nodded, sitting up a little, and then she went back to it like a champ.  Steve watched her suck in a breath and bear down.  Bruce had set the ultrasound scanner aside now, and he was counting again.  “One… Two…  Three…”

“Push, push, push…” Helen coached.  “You’re doing it.”  Steve looked again and saw the baby coming out _feet first._   _Oh, my God!_   “Okay, stop, Natasha.  Breathe through it a second.”  Natasha did, shuddering.  Cho was working quickly, and Steve couldn’t quite see what she was doing.  “Okay, you’re doing great.  One more big push and she’ll be here.”

Natasha took another deep breath, teeth gritted and lips pulled back again, as she pushed.  And that was it.  That was all it took.  She cried out, slumping down again, and the baby was in the doctor’s hands.

_Their daughter was born._

“Female newborn,” Doctor Cho announced, “born at 12:12 am.”

And the baby started crying.

Steve started to, too.  He couldn’t stop it, couldn’t do anything other than _feel_ how incredible this was.  Natasha was laughing and weeping against him, her eyes bright and brimming with tears.  “Is she okay?”

“Definitely,” Helen replied confidently.  “Here you go again, Dad.”

It took Steve a moment to realize they were waiting for him to cut the cord.  This time he was better prepared, and he managed it without getting too nauseous or unsteady on his feet.  After that, they took the baby and started to clean her off.  Both the twins were crying now, _loudly_ , and Steve let go of another happy sob.  He leaned over, gathering Natasha against him.  “You did it,” he whispered into her ear.  “You did it!”

All she could do was breathe a happy, _relieved_ sigh.  Then Doctor Cho was straightening, a bundle of red skin and white towels in her arms.  “Your daughter, Mrs. Rogers,” she said, and she tenderly laid the baby against Natasha’s chest.

She was… she was _beautiful._   That was all Steve could think.  Tiny.  A little nose and curled lips.  Rolls of new skin.  A light smattering of matted blond hair atop her head.  Eyes that were squeezed shut as she cried, but she quieted almost instantly when her little cheek touched Natasha’s skin.  They both stared at her, watched her take the first of her breaths in this new world, watched her little eyes flutter and open.  They were blue.  _Blue._

“Captain?” Steve turned, dragging a breath into his body, only to have one of the nurses hand him a second bundle.  He faltered, not having _the slightest idea_ of what he was doing, but she was giving him the other baby.  His arms trembled, and he shook his head in fear, suddenly terrified of his own strength, of doing something wrong as he held him, because the baby weighed nothing and was so small in his arms and he…

The little boy was staring right up at him with eyes that were blue and green.  Natasha’s eyes.  Natasha’s red hair.  Their son.  _Their son._   Steve stared at him, eyes burning, heart filling with so much warmth and love and pride.  Nothing would ever compare to this moment.  _Nothing._

“Steve,” Natasha whispered.  “Steve.”

He leaned closer, so careful and reverent, and tucked the little boy close to his mother.  “They’re…  They’re perfect.”

“Yeah.”

_Perfect._

There were other things going on.  Bruce grasped Steve on the shoulder, a huge smile on his face and his eyes a little wet, too.  He said he’d go tell the others, and he left.  The doctor and nurses were working to finish up the delivery, talking softly as they did.  It was hard to focus on any of that.  There was only this, their new family in its first precious moments.  The two of them and their twins.  All of them alive and healthy and _together._   Steve stroked his fingers down the baby boy’s face, watching as he watched him, and smiled through his tears.

Then he leaned over, kissed his wife’s waiting lips, and thanked her for everything she’d given him.

* * *

It was all over.

The twins were here.

Natasha couldn’t believe it.  It didn’t seem real, _but it was_.  She’d been waiting for what had felt like forever, dreading this and hating it and fearing it, and now that it had come and gone, she couldn’t imagine _not_ having experienced it.  It was akin to finding something she’d never known she’d lost, getting something she’d never realized she’d needed.   It was wondrous and awe-inspiring.  Already she knew she was different, changed forever, and not just in body.  In mind.  In soul.  And she was still afraid.  Now, she knew, the true test would begin.  But the amount of love, pure and unfettered, pulsing through her body made that all seem unimportant.  She was a mother.  _She was a mother._

The next hour passed in a blur.  The residual traces of the serum in her body had done wonders to minimize tearing, bleeding, and trauma, much to Doctor Cho’s and Bruce’s relief and surprise.  It also speeded her recovery from the epidural, and she was on her feet and walking to the bathroom with Bruce’s help shortly after the port in her back had been removed.  In fact, the serum was rapidly turning this into one of the easiest births Doctor Cho had ever seen.  She’d been in labor only about two short hours, pushing for even less than ten minutes total for both twins.  The twins themselves were incredibly healthy, testing perfectly on the Apgar scale, breathing normally with normal heartrates and great color, body temperatures, and responses to external stimuli.  They were ridiculously alert as well, more alert than any baby Bruce had ever seen.  Eyes open.  _Tracking_ sound and movement around them _already._   Bruce was flabbergasted.  Natasha wasn’t.  These were Captain America’s children.  Of course they’d be strong and advanced and brimming with vigor and vitality.

Captain America himself, though, was more of a wreck than she was.  He seemed to have left the capacity for cognizant thought somewhere back in the delivery room because he’d been in a haze since they’d wheeled Natasha and the twins to a new, clean infirmary room to recover.  She couldn’t help but be a little amused at that.  Everything anyone asked him was met with “uh-huh” or a distracted “yeah”.  Once they were back in the other room, they were left alone for a while.  Steve held the little girl, newly bathed, diapered, and swaddled, against him.  Natasha lay in the bed and watched him with her, how cautious and careful he was, how _beautiful_ it was.  She was settled in the crook of his arm, watching him quietly as though she was pensively studying this man looming over her who had her eyes and her features and her blond hair.  Everything Natasha had thought she’d seen on the ultrasounds the last couple of months was completely true.  She _did_ look just like her father, and Steve couldn’t get over it.

The little boy, also bathed and swaddled, was nearly asleep against her shoulder.  She glanced down at him, marveling yet again at the fact that he was there.  She ran her fingers gently through the silky strands of red hair.  _Red hair._ It was unreal.  “So you’re the one who’s been kicking me all the time,” she whispered.

Steve looked up, grinning lopsidedly.  “How do you know it wasn’t her?”

“Mother’s intuition.”  He laughed at that.  “Besides, he wanted out.  She seemed okay with staying in.  He’s got your impulsiveness and she’s got your stubbornness.”

“Hey,” he admonished lightly, “that’s not fair.  It can’t be my fault on both accounts.”

“It is.”

He chuckled again, but then they sat in silence a little longer.  Steve had one of her little hands curled around the thickness of his forefinger, and he was carefully running his thumb over her tiny fingers.  The quiet was sweet and comforting, and each of them was lost in tired thought and appreciation.  Natasha felt so many emotions wash over her, the adrenaline from the birth still not entirely gone.  It was a high that would last a while in all likelihood.  She liked it.  She _liked_ this.  She lowered her face slightly into the baby’s downy soft hair and pressed a kiss to his forehead.  His eyelids fluttered, but he settled with a contented little breath, drifting completely into slumber.  He smelled so good to her.  Felt so good in her arms.  _A gift._

“What are we gonna call them?”

She never got a chance to answer Steve’s question.  There was a soft knock at the door, and Doctor Cho came in.  There was another woman with her, an older lady with graying brown hair.  Natasha immediately narrowed her eyes and pulled her baby a little closer.  “How are you feeling, Natasha?” Cho asked, nearing her to examine the monitors still displaying her vitals.

“Fine,” she responded simply.  The memory of the fact that all these people had seen her at her most vulnerable, stripped of her dignity and privacy, wasn’t sitting as well with her now as everything else.  “Hardly even sore.”  That was might be an exaggeration, but it wasn’t so bad that she couldn’t handle it alone.

Cho nodded, smiling faintly.  “This is Doctor Mary Coulter.  She’s an obstetrician.  Don’t worry; she’s a very close friend of mine from when I trained in obstetrics.  She’s also a friend of Bruce’s.”

“And I signed an NDA,” Coulter said with a smile.  She came closer to the bed where Natasha lay, extending her hand.  “Hi.”

Tentatively, Natasha took her hand and shook it.  “Hi.”

Coulter nodded, smiling sweetly.  “Bruce said you were interested in maybe breast-feeding your babies.”

Natasha felt the blood drain from her face.  For some reason, that had completely slipped her mind.  The babies needed to eat.  And she was supposed to…  “You want to talk about this first?” Coulter asked, glancing between Steve and Natasha.

Steve’s brain had abandoned him again.  Either that or he was simply unwilling to make any decisions for her, which normally she’d appreciate.  At the moment, she wanted to smack him because all he did was shrug helplessly.  The ball was in her court, as she supposed it should be, but her anxiety knotted up her belly even more until she felt a little sick and completely out of her element.  She didn’t know why this seemed so daunting.  _You gave birth.  You can do this._   “I… um…  I don’t know.”

Coulter’s smile turned disarming.  “That’s alright.  You don’t have to.”  If she was at all put off or intimidated about talking to Black Widow about the prospect of nursing her newborn children, it wasn’t obvious.  She set a comforting hand to Natasha’s leg under the blankets of the hospital bed.  “What I’d like to do is give you some information.  Let you try, if you’re feeling up to it.  The babies should nurse or get a bottle very soon; they don’t need much in terms of nutrition in the first few hours postpartum, but it’s important, if you do want to breastfeed, to start inducing your own body into producing what they need.  How does that sound?”

It sounded terrifying.  She’d thought she’d have time, time to ease into motherhood, but already the babies needed her.  _They needed her._

She could do this.

So she nodded.  Coulter nodded as well.  She started talking, a veritable wellspring of information filling the room as she explained the ins and outs of newborn feeding.  It seemed like so much information, and Natasha was having a hard time following all of it.  Considering the twins’ likely heightened metabolism and nutritional requirements, Coulter didn’t think it was possible that Natasha would be able to keep up with them alone.  However, whatever breastfeeding she could do was important, especially in these first tender months.  She talked about her antibodies augmenting the twins’ immune systems through her breastmilk, about how her body would tailor the milk to their needs, about how to do it and what to expect.  She covered bottle-feeding as well and suggested (if they were interested) that Natasha nurse one twin while Steve bottle-fed the other and alternate.  The babies would eat every two to three hours in the beginning (maybe more often depending on how the serum affected their metabolism).  The thought of being _tied to them_ completely was so overwhelming that Natasha almost gave up on the idea right then and there.

But when she set the little girl to her breast with Coulter’s help, helped her latch on and start to nurse, she changed her mind pretty quickly.  Steve took the sleeping boy, standing close to the bed and watching intently despite how uncomfortable he’d been about this before.  Natasha couldn’t help but smile at him as he rested his free hand on her head.  She also couldn’t help a happy, little sob, cradling their daughter against her and watching her drink.  So much of the last few hours had been incredible, mind-blowing, _overwhelming_ in the best possible way, but this…  This was something she and she alone could give them.  Warm and sweet and soft.  She felt so triumphant, so proud.  So _right_ , like something in the core of her was in perfect harmony.  What she was supposed to do.  Who she was supposed to be.  She’d never known it.  Never before.  “It’s not always so easy,” Coulter warned with a knowing smile.  “They can get pretty fussy about eating, particularly in the beginning.  And it can be frustrating, but–”

“It’s okay,” Natasha whispered.  She slipped her fingers through the baby’s blonde hair.  “It’s okay.”

Coulter showed her some more.  How to switch sides.  How to help the baby have a good latch.  How long she should nurse on each breast.  How to burp her and keep her drinking, even when the baby started to nod off (which they inevitably did at this stage, as snuggled and contented as they got with their little tummies mostly full and their little bodies held close).  When she was done, the little girl fell right to sleep against Natasha, bare skin to bare skin and completely peaceful, and Natasha could do nothing but smile and watch and feel _good_.

Pleased with that, Coulter instructed Steve on how to rouse the little boy to give him a bottle.  He woke up with a disgruntled cry, but once Steve got him situated on his left arm and guided the nipple into his mouth, he went to town, sucking happily.  Coulter went through the same sorts of things.  How long to feed him.  Burping.  Keeping him awake enough to finish his meal.  With their son happily sucking and swallowing in Steve’s arms, she went over some other things.  Basic infant care.  Diapering.  Swaddling.  Dressing them.  Things to watch out for.  It was _so much._ Despite herself, Natasha couldn’t help but feel a little guilty that she hadn’t studied this more before they were born, that she’d been so scared and selfish.  She felt woefully underprepared now, and Coulter picked that up immediately.  “It’s a learning experience, even for parents who read everything they can get their hands on.  But you’ll get the hang of it surprisingly quickly.  And you’re doing wonderfully.”

She left not long after, promising to make herself available for any and all questions they had.  They sat quietly, both beaming with mutual appreciation for what they’d managed.  Maybe it was a minor thing, but they had two happy, healthy, well-fed babies in their arms, one passed out and the other looking up at his dad with cloudy, contented eyes.  Steve pulled his chair close to Natasha’s bed and leaned over to kiss her.

Not long after that, the little boy (loudly) declared that he needed to be changed.  Steve volunteered, despite the trepidation in his eyes, and Natasha watched in amusement as he went to the little cart that served as a changing table that the nurses had brought in for them.  He fumbled with the blankets, fumbled with the baby’s little shirt, his hands _huge_ compared to the tiny body squirming on the table.  Truth be told, she was glad he was performing this inaugural feat because, despite having faced some of the world’s worst villains and emerging victorious, _this_ was well and truly horrifying.  He got the dirty diaper off and starting wiping their son clean.  Then he quickly learned that cold air plus little boys plus a full bladder meant nothing good.  With a very unmanly squeal, Captain America struggled to shield himself and cover up the spray.  Natasha laughed, and he mock glared as he tried to mop up the mess.  Clumsily he got the new diaper on.  Wrongly, it seemed.  It fell right off the moment he tried the lift the baby into his arms.  “Other way,” Natasha instructed.  “The little Velcro tab things go in the front.”

“You think?” he said in exasperation.  He got the baby back down and tried again, this time with marginally more success.  After that, he was struggling to get the baby dressed in something dry and clean, obviously terrified of hurting him as he squirmed.  “Nat… I don’t know–”

“It’s alright,” she assured.  She sounded so confident to her own ears, even as their son started to get upset with all this manhandling and being cold.  “Just go slow.”

Steve took a deep breath, centering himself, and did just that.  He was slow and methodical and so very careful, gently positioning and pulling on little legs and hands to get the baby dressed again.  And, just when it seemed like he’d never succeed, he did it.  The baby was crying in earnest by the time he was done, and Natasha could see him working through how to fix that.  He lifted him against his shoulder, the baby’s entire body seemingly cupped in his hand and against his wrist, as he straightened the swaddling blanket.  Then he was going with military precision, his phenomenal memory aiding him as he went through the seemingly complicated process of swaddling that Coulter had briefly shown them (which Natasha had already forgotten).  Wrapping the baby up tight, Steve had him back in his arms, hushing and patting his bottom and tucking him close to his neck.  As if the little guy knew his dad had him, he stopped crying.

Steve beamed, almost crying himself.  “I did it.”

Natasha smiled at him, nodding and so touched.  “Yeah, you did.”

“Captain Rogers, sir,” JARVIS suddenly said.  Natasha nearly jolted in surprise; throughout all of this, she’d nearly forgotten _where_ they were.  Who was with them.  Waiting.  “Mr. Stark and the others would like to know if it would be okay for them to come in.  They will, of course, continue to delay if you are not ready or not feeling up to a visit.”

Steve looked at Natasha for an answer.  She took a deep breath to center herself and pulled her hospital gown up more to cover herself a little more.  Then she nodded.  “I’ll go out and get them,” he said, holding the baby closer.  “Think that’s okay?”

“Don’t see why it wouldn’t be.”

Steve set the little boy down in the bassinet the nurses had brought, running his thumb down the baby’s cheek a moment before smiling at Natasha again and heading out of the room.

It was silent.  Both the babies were content once more, and Natasha closed her eyes.  The rush of it all was starting to fade a little now, and she was exhausted.  And she hurt.  _Everywhere._   But it was a good kind of soreness, like the fatigue of strained muscles from a battle well fought and hard won.  She gathered up the little girl a bit more tightly, starting down at her face, and she let her mind drift a moment.

“You look like you’ve had a hell of a night, Romanoff.”

Natasha jolted upward slightly, having dozed so easily, and saw a dark form emerge from the shadows.  For just a second, she was afraid at who could have gotten into their room like this.  But then her mind processed whose voice it was.  “And you’re a sight for sore eyes,” she said.  “Sir.”

Fury came a little closer.  He was dressed as he always was in dark leather, and he sported his customary eye patch.  He appeared as cool and collected as ever, even if he was in a hospital room with one of his top agents and her two newborn children.  His taut expression softened as he beheld the little boy in the bassinet near her bed.  Then he turned to Natasha where she held her daughter.  He looked closely with that way he always did.  Emotionless.  Stoic.  Silently appraising, measuring worth.  What he said, though, was anything but practical.  “They’re beautiful, Natasha.”

Never in her wildest dreams would she have expected him to offer something like that.  “Thank you,” she murmured.

Fury nodded.  Despite the fact that he’d brought back Barnes, that he’d essentially saved Steve’s life, she hadn’t seen him much over the last few days.  They hadn’t spoken, and they hadn’t been alone.  Still, it really shouldn’t have surprised her that he was here, that he was the first in coming to see her.  None of it should have surprised her.  Not that he’d been so much a part of saving her and of saving Steve.  He watched her, too, with that same inscrutable way he always did.  She finally asked the question that had been in the back of her mind and heart for months now.  “You’re the one who made me his partner way back when.”  She shook her head ruefully.  “Did you know then what was going to happen?”

She hadn’t asked him directly like this, but he’d practically said no before, back during the mess with SHIELD collapsing.  He’d said he’d never imagined that Black Widow and Captain America would fall in love, would bond so tightly together as to risk their lives and the world for each other.  And she’d wondered when HYDRA had been chasing her and the babies if Fury hadn’t had a hand in it all.  In setting up this incredible, inexplicable scenario where Captain America impregnated Black Widow.  She knew now with absolute certainty that he hadn’t and wondered how she could ever have been so blind.  Nick Fury was many things, but he cared.  He cared very deeply.

He sighed and took another step closer until he was right beside her bed, staring down on her.  She remembered this so clearly, a moment almost seven years ago when Clint had brought her before the Director of SHIELD for his assessment.  She remembered looking up at him from a chair in front of his desk, wary and angry and so very shaken.  Small and looking for a new life, a new hope.  Now she was older, wiser.  Hardened in some ways and less certain in others.  He smiled softly.  “You never know,” he admitted.  That was quite a thing, coming from him.  Coming from someone who prided himself on what he did, on being nearly omnipotent, on anticipating moves and placing himself in the best possible situation to see his goals achieved.  Underneath that mask, he was only a man.  “You hope for the best and make do with what you get.  I got two great agents out of your partnership.  I got a great team out of the Avengers.  I got what I wanted, which was the world being a safer place.  And you got a family.”

She smiled and turned back to her daughter, still fast asleep and cuddled close.  “Hard to believe,” she mused.

“Not so much,” Fury disagreed.  He laid his hand on the baby’s forehead, sure and strong.  “Seems like we both made out like bandits.”

She couldn’t argue with that.  She swallowed the knot in her throat.  “Thank you, Nick.  For everything.”

He held her gaze.  In that moment, in every moment from that first one seven years ago to here, he was everything she’d needed.  Someone that had guided her.  Molded her.  Protected her.  Someone that had brought her out of darkness, just as much as Clint and Steve had.  He’d done it in a different way, but it was no less important.  He was her boss, her handler and her leader.  And he was maybe the closest thing she’d ever had to a father in her life.

He let his hand linger a second more on the baby’s head before sighing softly, nodding, and turning away.  “I did know you’d be good for each other.  And you’ll keep him grounded.”

She gave a little laugh.  “Yes, sir.”

“Trouble, Mrs. Rogers.  No matter who wins or loses, trouble still comes around.”  He paused at the door.  “Just make sure your husband has his shield on him the next time it does.”  He walked out of the room.

Natasha sat there, thinking about that, about everything.  Everything that had led them to this place.  It was incredible how her path had twisted and turned.  How Steve’s had.  How far they’d come from that moment in Fury’s office in the Triskelion almost three years ago.  Simply incredible.

A little later, there was noise down the hallway.  Sure enough, the Avengers were there.  Sam.  Thor.  Bruce.  Tony and Pepper.  Despite the fact it was nearly 1:30 in the morning and they were all exhausted, they came loudly, jubilantly, smiling so broadly that one would think they’d been the ones to labor and give birth to these children.  Thor smacked Steve hard enough on the back to nearly topple him.  Tony had beer and cigars, which Natasha positively forbade him to smoke around her children.  Pepper cooed over them, giving Natasha a sweet hug and heartfelt congratulations.  Sam clasped Bruce on the shoulder and applauded him for a job well done, which the physicist immediately brushed aside and said the accolades truly belonged to Natasha.  Still, he was proud, so _proud_ , to have been a part of this.  He even leaned down to kiss Natasha’s cheek, tenderly and reverently cupping the baby’s small head in his capable, gentle hands and nodding in satisfaction over what he’d help to bring into this world.

The good cheer was powerful, intoxicating almost, and they all basked in it.  After everything that had happened, this was the perfect end.  Tony slung his arm over Steve, dragging him into half a hug like a big brother giving his little brother a hard time for a massive accomplishment, like he was too proud to do anything other than poke fun.  Thor commented on how strong and handsome their son was, and he boldly proclaimed that on Asgard ballads would be sung of his future exploits.  Their daughter would be beautiful, and similar songs would be dedicated to her wisdom and fairness.  Bruce tried to keep his excitement contained as he talked about the scientific possibilities here, the new ways to examine the genetic underpinnings of the serum.  And Sam looked down on the baby girl he was now holding, the first of them to be brave enough to do it.  “So what are you naming them?”

“Antonia and Anthony, Jr.?” Tony offered again.  “I still vouch for that.”  Pepper smiled at the baby boy Steve handed her, face positively glowing.  Tony grimaced.  “If they name him Tony, Jr., then we don’t need one.  Win-win.”

Steve cracked a helpless smile, sharing a look with his wife.  “I don’t–”

“I know her name,” Natasha said, cocking an eyebrow.  “His I haven’t figured out yet.”  Everyone was surprised.  She gave her husband a sly look.  “You told Sam that I was giving birth to them, so I could name them.”

Steve turned to his friend, who shrugged and conceded the point.  “You did say that.”

“Okay,” Steve said, crouching beside the chair in which Sam was sitting to brush his finger down his daughter’s cheek.  “Then what is it, Nat?”

Natasha smiled.  “Nicole.  Nicole Samantha Rogers.”

The implications didn’t sink in for a moment.  Then Sam’s face filled with the most wonderful smile Natasha had ever seen him have.  “Really?  I was just joking before…  Really?”

She smiled herself.  “Yeah.”

_“Really?”_

She nodded whole-heartedly.  Sam turned his wide gaze up at Steve, and Steve nodded, too, smiling at his friend.  Sam laughed, holding the baby closer, apparently rendered speechless by the honor.  Tony and Thor grasped his shoulders, giving him a little, brotherly shake, and he wiped at his eyes, embarrassed at his emotions.  “It’s a beautiful name,” Pepper declared.  “Why Nicole?”

Outside in the hallway, a shadow shifted just a little.  The tiniest bit.  No one else saw it, but Natasha did.  “It just seemed right.”

Not long after that, the team dispersed, offering up the final hugs and kisses for the night.  Natasha nursed the little boy while Steve changed their daughter and gave her a bottle.  It was very late, so late it was nearly morning in fact, and they worked quietly.  Eventually, the babies were both contented and slumbering again, and Steve came close to her.  He looked as exhausted.  “Gonna sleep a little?”

“Maybe in a bit,” she answered.  She was still too excited, too wired from it all.  And she didn’t think she could, not with these two precious beings so close to her.  Their needs were above hers.  This was who she was now.  A mother.  _Their_ mother.

“’kay,” Steve said with a yawn.  He dimmed the lights in the room before laying the little boy down in the bassinet.  Then he leaned over and kissed Natasha slowly, tenderly.  He collapsed into the chair beside the bed.  “I’ll stay up with you.”

That lasted about a minute.  Natasha held her daughter close, losing herself in the moment again, and when she turned back, her husband’s head was tipped all the way back.  His eyes were closed, his body limp, and he was snoring softly.  She smiled and shook her head.

There was a soft sigh against her, little lips turned and suckling against her bare skin.  The baby nuzzled closer, tiny hands balled into loose fists, little legs drawn up into the warmth.  Beautiful.  So beautiful.  She’d never seen anything like this.  Her son.  And this was her daughter.  _Hers._  

She’d never been so at peace with herself.  “I love you, baby girl,” she whispered.  Then she smiled.  “My baby girl.  Little Nika.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out these amazing graphics inspired by this chapter, made by the wonderful [lbs29](http://lbs29.tumblr.com). Thanks, my dear!
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> Also, here's another wonderful artwork done by [vbprodz](http://vbprodz.tumblr.com)! 


	20. Chapter 20

Somehow they survived their first night as parents.  It felt monumental, even though Natasha knew it was only the very beginning of a long, _long_ journey.  Neither of them got much sleep.  Moments not spent directly caring for the twins were spent watching them in wonder or worry.  Natasha quickly discovered that nursing, while an amazing experience, was just as Doctor Coulter had warned: time intensive, consuming, and frustrating.  The baby boy was fussier about it than Nicole was.  Quite a few times during the night she needed Steve’s help to get him started, and even then it was hit and miss.  She also found that her emotions were starting to get the better of her.  Fueled by so much going on, by exhaustion and the rapidly collapsing hormonal high of pregnancy and childbirth, they were building into a completely unpredictable storm of laughing and crying, anger and joy and terror and everything in between.  Bruce told her that was extremely normal, that for the next couple of weeks even she might feel particularly bereft of her characteristic control.  That was disturbing, but, like everything else, she’d have to endure it.

Still, it was hard to stay calm with a newborn wailing and her completely unable to fix the problem.  She was sore and exhausted now, and nothing she did to hold onto her composure (or temper) helped.  Of all the times in her life where she craved that security of cool apathy, this was the most severe and the farthest away from it she’d ever been.  She was compromised in every sense of the word, desperate to make it better, uncertain, afraid, frustrated, teetering a little on the edge of an actual breakdown.

A couple hours of sleep had done Steve a world of good, though, and he was quiet and gentle, hugging her as she shuddered through the sobs she was trying to hide and hold back.  He hushed her, promised her over and over again that this would all be okay.  He held the baby and guided her while she tried the varying techniques Coulter had showed her until the little guy finally latched on and sucked like a champ.  It was such a relief, a ridiculous thing, she idly thought, over which to be so upset.  Somehow in such a short time her body had completely changed, a tool she used for a new and different purposes, for a novel mission, the objectives of which centered around the health, safety, and contentment of her children.  It hadn’t been a conscious choice or anything she’d ever fathomed herself experiencing.  This was a primal thing, old and natural, an instinct that, much like her emotions, was wrought by hormones and blossoming understanding and a burgeoning connection.  It was so satisfying in an intrinsic way, that she could provide this for them.  Every time one the twins nursed, she felt worthy of them, worthy of this.  And she knew Steve was so proud of her for doing it.  He didn’t say as much, but she could see it in the way he looked at her.  In the dim light of the room, he sat behind her, supporting her, watching their son or daughter eat, reaching around her to touch the baby’s tiny head soothingly.  He wiped away her tears, kissed the nape of her neck, and told her she was amazing.

The whole night was a blur like that, nursing and bottles, diapers.  The twins seemed to be incredibly hungry.  Steve sat, half dozing while he gave Nicole her bottle, and Natasha swayed, shushing their son.  Then she sat, her back sore and everything tender, and held Nika while Steve changed the boy’s diaper (he’d gotten ridiculously adept at that already. They both had).  Then more rocking in the glider Tony had had brought in for them, one the babies to her breast (she was losing track of who the more exhausted she got.  She was relying more and more on Steve to keep their pattern of switching between bottles and nursing straight).  Taking care of twins was literally doubling everything, double the diapers to change, double the babies to feed, double the comfort to give.  When one was content, it didn’t necessarily mean the other would be.  Even when both the babies were quiet, it was hard for Steve and Natasha to shut off, no matter how exhausted they were.  And they were exhausted beyond the pale.  Steve was as tired as she was, still recovering from being so sick with all the tumult of the last twelve hours on top of that, but he was doing a far more admirable job at hiding it and soldiering on.  That was good.  Despite that, when the sun rose outside on the first day of their lives as parents, even he with all of his enhanced endurance and endless fortitude looked haggard and relieved the night was over.

Bruce and Doctor Cho came to check on her and the twins shortly after that.  Helen examined her and found everything was better than she’d expected.  Other than being tired and sore, Natasha showed very few signs of having given birth less than twelve hours ago.  Bruce wanted to perform some tests, but all his patient let him do was take a few blood samples.  He smiled and let that go, writing off her quick recovery as another plus of having the super soldier serum involved.  A minus, though, (well, it wasn’t really a _minus_ per se but it was certainly an issue) was the fact that, as she’d feared with the amount of _eating_ the babies had done over the night, she wasn’t going to be able to maintain their nutritional needs with nursing alone.  It was amazing how that made her feel like a failure.  _Why?_   There was absolutely no good reason for it, but waves of guilt assailed her until she was frowning through his explanation and once again on the verge of tears.  Steve was right there to remind her that it was fine, that there was nothing she could do now or could have done before to fix this.  It didn’t need to be fixed.  Bruce simply told her to continue doing what she was doing while supplementing with formula as much as possible.  They’d know more in a few days, when her body began producing what the twins needed in earnest.  Steve put an arm around her shoulders, kissed her temple, and again promised her it would be okay.

The rest of Bruce’s assessment of the babies was fantastic.  They were both _incredibly_ healthy, alert, and strong.  He’d taken blood samples the night before, and once Helen was gone, he informed Steve and Natasha that they had indeed inherited the super soldier serum (as if there’d been any doubt).  Bruce’s earliest analyses indicated it was not exactly the same as their father’s.  Lukin and that doctor in the Red Room who’d engineered Omega Red had been correct, as disgusting as it was.  Erskine’s original serum had combined with the serum of the Red Room on a genetic level, and what the twins were producing was not simply a derivative of either but something entirely new.  Bruce believed it was closer to the original super soldier serum, meaning the babies would likely be much stronger, faster, and more resilient than normal humans were.  They had the chance to be smarter, better learners, blessed with enhanced senses and capable of the same incredible feats their father was.  Pushing the same boundaries of human perfection that their father did.  It was hard to say for sure at this point (the babies were less than a day old, after all), but the possibilities were there.  Along with that was the chance to truly understand _how_ the serum worked.  Unravel the mysteries that were locked in Steve’s DNA.  This could go a long way to explaining Steve’s own unique genetic make-up and physiology.  The whole traumatic nightmare of the days prior might have been averted if they’d known more about the serum and its properties.  With the twins’ DNA readily accessible now, the goal of pinning down exactly which genes were contributing to the serum in their blood and comparing those to their father’s (and mother’s) was far more attainable.  The sky was literally the limit on what they could uncover about Erskine’s formula and human genetics itself.  These two babies were unlike _any_ in human history, and there was so much they could learn from them.

It didn’t come as a surprise, therefore, when Bruce said he wanted to conduct a more thorough genetic analysis (with their permission of course).  They didn’t give it right away.  The issue of the twins having the serum had been something they’d both worried about.  They hadn’t talked about it much since the incident with Omega Red.  That nightmare had scared and scarred them both, Natasha so much so that even when the idea of motherhood had been so strange and unsettling to her that she’d all but rejected it, the fear of anyone touching her children had been potent and driving.  The danger the twins could face because of who they were, what they possessed in their blood…  It was terrifying.  There were a whole host of issues there, not the least of which being that the whole world (and all of their enemies) now knew she’d been pregnant.  Every government across the globe, not to mention every hostile organization or evil regime, would likely do anything to get its hands on Captain America’s children.

So the thought of anyone testing or cataloging samples from their children (even Bruce) was off-putting.  The physicist picked up on that, smiling disarmingly and saying nothing had to be done now.  That was just as well, because Natasha wasn’t ready to think about this.  She didn’t believe Steve was either.  He stood beside her, stiff and quiet, his eyes clouded in concern and his jaw tense as he gritted his teeth and stared worriedly at the babies.  While Bruce finished up his examination, she reached between them to take his hand, sweeping her thumb down across his knuckles.  With that, he broke from his dark thoughts, focused on her, and met her reassuring nod with a tentative smile.  They didn’t have to worry about this now.  There was enough on their plate.

Pepper arrived with breakfast, a few carts full of eggs, fruit, breakfast meats, and pastries.  Sam and Thor joined them, each greeting them and this new day with smiles, light moods, and happy laughter.  It was nice to have company, she had to admit.  The world had somewhat ceased to exist beyond this room, and having a couple extra pairs of hands to hold the babies while the new parents took a moment to themselves was marvelous.  Natasha ate like a horse.  She hadn’t realized how famished she was until a plate of steaming food was set before her.  Even this _felt_ different; she’d gotten so used to being pregnant, to feeling the twins inside her and her body altering itself to accommodate them, that simple things were novel.  It was all a transition.  At least she could have coffee again, which had never tasted so good (although Bruce had already warned her to take care of what she ate and drank, since apparently things like caffeine and alcohol could get into breastmilk).  She enjoyed a cup while watching Sam coo to Nicole where she was bundled in his arms and Thor tentatively take the baby boy from Steve.  It was almost comical.  The twins looked tiny compared to the stature of their father, but they seemed _microscopic_ in Thor’s muscled arms.  It was even more comical when the mighty and bold God of Thunder held his breath and blanched at the thought of holding a newborn.  He did, though, and his trepidation faded and he smiled in delight as he beheld “the son of Rogers”.  “You need a name for that kid,” Sam said.  He had Nicole sleeping in a matter of no time.  “I know you already kinda named her after me, but I’ll throw Samuel back in the running just for the fun of it.”

Steve smiled.  “It’s a good name.”  He turned to Natasha where she sat in the bed, waiting for her to decide.  He hadn’t said a thing about their son’s name all through the night.  Honestly, Natasha had been hoping he would take charge here because she had no idea.  And she felt Steve deserved to decide this one or at least have some say.  She was about as far from traditional as one could be, but something felt right about him being able to name his son.  He’d offered nothing, though, like he was entirely content to let her be in control of this.  Normally that was how she preferred things in their relationship, but right now, with her fatigued brain pretty spectacularly failing her, she just felt bad for having found a name for their daughter and having pretty much nothing for their son.

“On Asgard, it is not uncommon for the child’s forebears to influence the selection of a name,” Thor declared.  Natasha wrinkled her nose slightly.  A lot of help that was.  “It is a reminder of the importance of one’s history, of the impact of family on one’s life. ”

“That’s common here, too,” Sam said.  “I’m named after my great-grandfather.”

Was that their not so subtle way of telling her she should name the boy for her family?  She had none, and even if she knew who they were, she had no interest in honoring anything or anyone in her past.  Thankfully, Pepper changed the subject, lifting two little bags from one of the carts.  One was baby blue with a teddy bear on the front that was loaded with glitter.  The other was light pink and had a sleeping mouse, equally covered in sparkles.  “I have a couple of things I bought for you guys.  Little gifts for them.”

“I don’t think they need anymore,” Sam declared. “Have you seen the pile of stuff outside?  And that was just from this morning.”

Pepper shot Sam a withering look that had him chuckling and shaking his head.  “I’m allowed to buy them something,” she declared.  “They were born in my Tower.  As Thor keeps saying, I’m the lady of the manor.”  Thor actually laughed at that.  Pepper smiled and turned back to Natasha.  “Go ahead.”

For some reason, this made her uncomfortable.  She couldn’t really say why.  She’d spent the last couple of days since Steve had recovered going through the massive pile (and Sam was right; _massive_ was probably an understatement) of baby gifts they’d received.  But that had been from faceless people, names scribbled on cards (and sometimes not even that).  This was from someone she knew, someone who cared about her and cared about her children, and she didn’t quite know how to handle that.  The attention and the graciousness and the love.  Still, she managed a smile and dug through the tissue paper.  Inside the bags were two infant outfits, one a soft, fleecy blue with a matching cap and the other a pretty pink with ballet slippers for feet.  Natasha held them, knowing right away from the make and feel of the fabric that they were expensive.  Of course they would be, coming from Pepper, but it wasn’t the price tag that that made them meaningful.  It was the sweet smile on Pepper’s face.  “It’s pretty cold out still, so I thought these would be nice for when you go.”

Natasha’s eyes shot to Steve, who was giving Pepper a pointed, annoyed look that other woman didn’t notice as wrapped up as she was with the gifts.  He shook his head quickly, flushing with equal parts embarrassment and frustration, like a kid who’d very nearly successfully gotten away with something.  Natasha didn’t push it, though, because the baby boy started to fuss in Thor’s arms.  He let out a loud peel of unhappiness.  The demigod looked distinctly horrified, so Steve immediately went to them.  Could it _possibly_ be time for him to eat again?  She glanced at the clock on one of the sleek screens affixed to the wall on her right.  It was.  They were going about every hour, and he was having more trouble with nursing than his sister did.  Natasha was tired, and she really wanted to finish the rest of her breakfast, but she couldn’t.  She needed to try again with him.  This was how it was now, and she could see that already.  It was a small price to pay.  So before Steve could go get one of the little premade bottles of formula from the cart, she stopped him.  “No, it’s okay.  I’ll…”  Suddenly the thought of _anyone_ aside from her husband even _knowing_ about it was too much.  She clamped down on her tongue to stop herself from saying anything further, and her face went impassive.

Thankfully Pepper was perceptive.  She smiled knowingly, standing up from Natasha’s bed and taking the gifts to set them carefully on one of the tables.  “Alright, guys.  Let’s go.”

Steve carefully took the now wailing, squirming newborn from Thor’s flustered hands.  “It’s probably for the best,” he said, bobbing his head in agreement.

“I fail to understand what – oh.  _Oh._ ”  Thor made a pointed effort not to look at Natasha, which only made her more embarrassed (which she funneled into a colder, more stoic mask, of course).  “Certainly.  We shall leave you.”

“Am I missing something?” Sam asked.  Pepper went over to him and gently took Nicole.  She smiled at the sleeping baby before handing her back to Steve.  Then she directed the two flustered Avengers to roll the remains of breakfast out of the room.

Steve stood there a second, longingly watching them leave, patting Nicole’s bottom.  “Actually, is it okay with you if I run back up to our suite for a minute?  Kinda want to take a shower and get dressed.”  He was still wearing his pajamas from last night, and they were pretty dirty.  Splotched with spit-up (at some point during the night, one of the twins had let loose on him) and things even worse.  “I mean, she’s sleeping, so if I’m quick…”

The thought of being completely alone with the babies was a little ( _a lot_ ) frightening, but Natasha recognized it was just another step she needed to take.  The others were right here, Bruce and Helen in the labs and the infirmary, the rest of the Avengers of course in the Tower.  Steve would be just a few floors away.  And JARVIS would summon help immediately if she needed it.  So she nodded, and Steve smiled, relieved.  “I’ll bring down some of your things,” he promised as he laid Nicole in the bassinet.

He was slow to walk away at first, looking down on his sleeping daughter and his seemingly stoic wife (he could see through all of her masks at this point) holding his impatiently crying son.  She knew he’d be quick, as fast as he could be, so she gave him another nod.  “Go, Rogers.”

He jerked out of his worried lingering and let Sam pull him out of the door.

Now it was just her and the babies and this time not just for a minute or two.  And her son was getting quite worked up with his hunger.  Natasha drew a deep breath to center herself.  _I can do this._ She knew she could.  She’d never had much trouble staying calm in strenuous situations.  The Red Room had instilled in her icy composure, emotionless fortitude in the face of any danger or difficulty.  That wasn’t what she needed here.  She needed the calm patience of being a mother.  This was the first time she’d try to nurse without any help, without Steve there to help and support her.  “Shh,” she hushed.  “Hold on.”  This little guy had no patience.  Of the two of the babies, she could tell already he was going to be the bigger handful.  She got her hospital gown down off her shoulders again, adjusted him to rest in her forearm, and tried to get him comfortably positioned.  He was having none of that, little arms and legs flailing in uncoordinated spasms, wailing until he was red in the face.  “Please don’t cry…  I’m trying.”  With her other hand, she did all the things she’d been taught.  Rubbing his cheek.  Trying get some milk into his mouth.  Attempting other positions.  Switching sides.  “Come on,” she pleaded softly, her eyes welling with tears after struggling and struggling for what felt like forever.  Still he wouldn’t nurse, and he was getting more desperate and hysterical.  So was she.  “Please, please, _please_ …  I don’t know what to do.  I don’t know…  I’m trying.”

She could feel herself falling apart.  Whether this was fueled by out of control emotions or real and actual failure didn’t matter.  She needed help.  She needed Steve.  She couldn’t do this without him.  JARVIS would get Steve, wouldn’t he?  Wouldn’t the AI just _realize_ she was distressed and summon him so she wouldn’t have to admit how bad at this she was?  There was a sob lodged in her throat, and she couldn’t breathe around it, let alone speak.  And her mind was spinning uselessly, wild with doubt and seemingly insurmountable shame and despair.  She should get someone.  She should get a bottle.  Try something else.  _Give up_.  Her baby was crying for something, _and she couldn’t give it to him…_

But then she drew a deep breath, let herself relax, and tried again.  _Calm.  Patience.  Persistence._

This time it worked.  He started to nurse.  His little eyes opened wide once he got what he needed, and he looked up at her.  Stared at her.  That sob stuck inside finally burst out, mixed now with a laugh.  Her relief shook her to the core, and the pride she felt…  There was nothing else like it.  Something so pure and precious.  She didn’t deserve this, _not any of it_ , after everything she’d done.  All the bad things.  The life she’d lived.  The pain she’d caused.  She didn’t deserve him looking at her like he was.

He was, though.  Just watching her.  Hazily.  Happily.  And just like Steve had said to her, he wasn’t seeing a murderer or an assassin.  He wasn’t seeing a weapon of the Red Room or a SHIELD agent or even an Avenger.  He wasn’t seeing Black Widow.

He was seeing his mother.

“Whoa.  Whoa!  Sorry!  Geez.”  Natasha jerked at the sudden cry of alarm, but she was careful not to interrupt the baby after all the work and trauma she’d gone through to get him feeding.  Her sharp eyes went to the door of the room (the door her idiot of a husband had left wide open) only to see Tony floundering to get back outside, covering his eyes and turning bright red.  She’d never seen him blush.  “A little warning next time!”

Natasha flushed herself with both embarrassment and ire.  Thinking quickly, she grabbed a discarded swaddling blanket and covered herself as best as she could.  “I’ll put a sign on the door,” she coolly retorted.

“Good.  This is my Tower, you know!”

“And they’re my babies.”  This wasn’t something she’d ever imagined saying, but she went there.  “This is what breasts are meant for.  I know that’s hard for a self-proclaimed playboy to accept.”

“I know that’s what they’re _meant_ for,” Tony gasped, his back stiff against the doorframe and his eyes firmly directed out into the hallway, “but that doesn’t mean I need a demonstration.”  Natasha couldn’t help but smile a little at that.  “Where’s the Cap?”

“He went to take a shower.”

“Oh.  I’ll, uh… just wait out here then.  Or I can just tell you.”

“Tell me what?  And I’m almost done.”  She shifted the baby to the other side and, to her relief, he got started much easier this time.  With his tummy mostly full, he was getting sleepy.

Tony’s next words made her shake her head in confusion.  “Well, happy baby day!  Happy birthday to them?  I don’t know.  Whatever.  Anyway, in honor of that, my guys were at your place all through the night setting stuff up, and everything’s ready.”  _My… place?_   “I saw pictures.  Not on Twitter, so don’t worry.  They sent them to me for approval.  And I approved.  It looks awesome.  Nailed it, one hundred percent.  Well, Pepper nailed most of it, but she’s an extension of me and therefore I nailed it.  So I’m awesome.”

She didn’t understand.  “What the hell are you talking about, Stark?”

He chanced looking over his shoulder, but there was nothing to see now.  Natasha had covered up, and the baby was passed out, sweetly asleep in her arms.  Stark’s eyes settled directly on her questioning face, and his own tightened into a grimace.  “You… weren’t supposed to know about this, were you.”  It wasn’t a question.  It was the dawning realization of a guy who’d realized he’d royally screwed up.

“Know about what?” she asked evenly, narrowing her eyes at him.

Tony blanched further under her stare.  “Okay, nothing.  It’s nothing.  Tell your husband he sucks at communication.”

Natasha smiled.  Obviously Steve had _something_ planned.  And obviously it was supposed to be a gift of some sort.  Whatever it was (okay, she had a pretty good idea what it was at this point, and she felt… nervous and excited at once), she’d act surprised when the time came.  “In his defense, he’s had a few things on his mind the last week.”

Tony grunted a rueful laugh, clearly relieved that she wasn’t going to eviscerate him.  “Yeah.”  He came a little closer into the room, tentatively and slowly like this was uncharted territory.  It was.  He looked patently uncertain, alone as he was without the comfort of the others who had just as little experience in a situation like this as he did.  He looked down at Nicole in the bassinet.  “Gotta admit I’m gonna miss things being the way they were.  It was nice.”

Natasha had to agree with that.  The last months since the Avengers had reformed and they’d all come to live at the Tower…  It _had_ been nice.  Comfortable and pleasant.  At the time it hadn’t seemed like anything special, but now…  “Yeah, it was.”

Tony gave a crooked grin.  “Brave new world, huh?”

She smiled back softly.  “Yeah.”

He nodded.  A peaceful moment of silence crept by, the two of them contemplative and appreciative.  The last vestiges of all the tension between them since Steve had been hurt in London faded, leaving nothing but hard-won understanding.  Eventually Tony sniffled like he was trying to keep his emotions under control.  “So… Nicole, huh?”  Natasha cocked an eyebrow and nodded.  “After Lord of the Spies?”  She nodded again.  Tony chuckled.  “Does he know?”

She thought of the warm shadow had hovered around the infirmary off and on during the night, wandering closer almost protectively now and again, watching and appreciating.  “He knows.”

“What about him?”  Tony tipped his head toward the bundle in her arms.  “Got a name yet?”

Natasha sighed, looking down at her slumbering son once more, and shook her head.  Not much had changed since the last time she’d been asked a few minutes ago.  “Feels like a big decision, you know.  She was easy.  For some reason, he’s not.”  With some effort, she scooted to the side of the bed.  Her back was hurting, and she felt clammy and gross with sweat.  Much to her surprise, Tony came right over to help her.  His hands were light, more timid than she’d ever seen them be, as he grasped her arm.  “Thanks,” she murmured.  He helped her stand, and all the discomfort in her lower body made itself known again in short order.  She winced, and he watched in concern.  Then she got herself moving and walked to the other bassinet.  She carefully set the baby boy down, ensuring he was well covered and safe.  She stared at his little face, his red hair (more like fiery fuzz) sticking up in all directions.  “Steve’s no help.”

“You expected him to be?  Dunno how you haven’t noticed, but he’d move heaven and earth to make you happy.”

She’d noticed.  And she’d never deserve that, either.  Never.  “I just…  It feels like his should be something as meaningful as hers is.  Something that symbolizes where he came from.  Something that honors how they came into this world.”

“What about your father’s name?”

“I don’t know it.”

Tony winced a little at that.  “Steve’s?”

That she did know.  “Joseph.”  Joseph was a strong name, a good name.  A way to respect Steve’s past.  _Joseph Rogers._   Maybe that was fitting.  Maybe.  “Steve never knew him, though.”

Tony stared at the baby, too, coming to stand right beside her.  “Fathers have a way of shaping who we become, no matter where they are or what they do.”  She turned to him in surprise, saw the emotions play across his face to settle in the deep brown of his eyes.  Grief.  Guilt.  But there was understanding, too.  A better grasp of what things meant.  She wondered what had happened to him, if he’d somehow made some peace with his own past.  He nodded as though to himself.  “I’m learning that all the time.  Every time I think I know all there is to know about mine, he finds a way to surprise me.  Been buried for twenty-five years, and he’s still changing my life.”  Natasha smiled.  “I guess that’s the way it works.  You can never really know everything.  Dads… dads are important.  The past is important.”

_Something to respect.  Something to accept and forgive.  Something to appreciate.  But not something that defines the future._

Tony broke the quiet that had descended again.  “But friends are cool, too.  Friends kick ass.  So I still vouch for Anthony, Jr.”

“Stark,” she warned lightly.

“Is it too late to throw Clinton back in for consideration?”

Natasha’s heart jumped.  She ripped around.

There, standing in the doorway, was Clint.  He was dressed in jeans that didn’t quite fit right, a red flannel shirt, and a well-worn black jacket.  His face was unshaven, his hair sticking up like he hadn’t really had time to take care of it.  And he looked pale.  Tired.  She could tell by the way he was standing that he was hurt, his body bent so that his posture wasn’t firm.  His eyes were full of vigor, though.  And he was smiling.  _Smiling._

She was across the room before she had even thought to move, grabbing him and pulling him close.  The familiar feel of his body in her embrace was like a soothing balm, and she closed her eyes against the burn of tears, her heart pounding.  She tucked her face into his shoulder, wrapping her arms around him.  He gave a little “oomph”, catching himself given the force of the hug, but she only managed a second of worry before sinking deep into relief.  _Clint was back.  Clint was there._   “Sorry I’m late,” he whispered into her hair as he hugged her back tightly.  His voice tremored in regret.  “And I’m so sorry I missed–”

“Thank God you’re alright,” she murmured into his clothes.  Idly she thought he didn’t smell like the road or a fight, like these clothes had belonged to someone else.  A faint breath of a flowery fabric softener.  She couldn’t focus much on that, though, or anything else.  Possessively her fingers curled into his shirt.  Only now, in the wake of everything they’d suffered, did she realize how much she’d missed him.  How much she’d needed him.  She’d been alright, and everything had worked out okay, but his support was so important to her.  Having him here again…  She pulled away, wiping in embarrassment at her wet cheeks.  Then she took his face in between her palms.  “You _are_ alright, aren’t you?”

Clint took her hands.  “Yeah.  Nothing Banner can’t patch up.”  He smiled a faint smile, sure but soft.  He looked around the room.  “Cap?”

“He’s okay,” she assured.  “It’s almost like it never happened.”

Clint breathed an audible sigh of relief.  “Dunno how many lives the serum gave him, but thank God there always seems to be one more.”

“Lucky for us.”  Tony came closer.  “But where the hell have you been, Barton?” he asked.  His tone was light but perhaps a little accusatory.  Perhaps a little upset that Clint had worried them all so much.

Clint gave a tight grin, the one he always had for the inventor.  “Out dealing with my demons, Stark.”

“Always a good time.”

“You would know.”

Tony actually laughed at that, a friendly, lighthearted thing.  _Don’t we all._ “And you took care of Swordsman?”  They knew Clint had, of course.  Natasha wasn’t sure if Tony was fishing for details or simply looking for confirmation.

Confirmation was all he got.  That, a curt nod, and a simple reassurance.  “Dispatched.”

Tony grinned and nodded.  “Then hurray for happy endings.”  _Very much so._   Natasha hugged Clint again.  She held tight, battling her emotions, the tears again stinging in her eyes and her heart shuddering in her chest.  Clint was alive.  Steve was alive.  Her children were here, happy and healthy.  They were all fine.  _Happy endings._

Tony cleared his throat uncomfortably.  “Alright, I’ll be on my way then.  All’s well in this nest.  My work here is done.”  _What work?_   The snide comment never got back her brain, and a moment later, Stark was gone and they were alone.

Now she did let loose a sob.  Clint cupped the back of her head and let her cry a moment.  It was unlike her, but with all her hormones completely out of whack, it was what it was.  “Hey, it’s alright,” he swore.

“Where were you?  I…”  All the missions they’d worked as partners, all the times they’d gone their separate ways only to come back together…  She’d never worried like this.  She’d never _asked_ like this.  Clint was a loner and entirely capable of taking care of himself and his problems.  She wasn’t even sure it was her business to learn what had happened.  Still, she was asking again before she could stop herself.  “Where…”

He pulled back, smiling faintly.  There was something… _different_ about him.  He was happier again, with light in his eyes that she could see went to his soul.  The pain, the doubt, the darkness…  It was gone.  The scars were there, of course, but the heavy shroud of _degeneration_ had been lifted from his shoulders.  When she took a moment to appraise him more carefully, she saw bruises on his face.  The hints of cuts and slashes.  He was missing a hearing aid.  He was keeping his weight off his left leg.  Still, he was brimming with vitality, the glow of it bright in his hazel eyes.  The taut lines around his mouth without which she’d rarely seen him…  They were gone.  He was more than changed.  He seemed like a different man, the same in some ways, but reborn in others.

And he seemed like he wanted to say something.  He was staring in her eyes, silent as he worked through whatever he was thinking.  He sucked in a breath, smiling a smile that was at once broad and uncertain, and gripped both her hands between them, tucking them into his chest.  “I, uh…  I just…”  He shook his head, practically beaming.  Embarrassed but in a good way.  It was then she realized that he wasn’t just different from before, when the pain of dying and losing his hearing and what he’d been forced to do for HYDRA had been haunting him.  He was a changed man, someone she didn’t quite recognize.  No, not just that.  She looked into his eyes now and saw someone she hadn’t seen since he’d brought her into SHIELD.  _Hawkeye._   Cool and calm.  Confident.  A savior.  A hero.  _An Avenger._   “I stopped him, Nat.  And I found what I needed.”

She didn’t understand, but whatever it was, she was glad.  The broken man shooting targets in the gym a couple of weeks ago seemed healed and whole, and however that had happened, she felt nothing but relief for him.  It was clear he didn’t want to say more, and she respected that.  Whatever it was he’d found…  When the time came, maybe he would confide in her.

He left her standing there and limped over to the bassinets.  His gaze swept over the babies, both still sleeping in their pink and blue blankets.  He was silent, his eyes wide with genuine amazement.  “Oh, wow, Nat,” he finally said.  He looked up at her, his eyes glimmering in the lights.  “They’re so beautiful.”  She nodded, feeling her own eyes stubbornly sting a little once more.  “And everything went okay?”

“Yeah,” she breathed.  “Everything was perfect.”

“And they’re fine?”

“Yes.”

“And you haven’t named him,” Clint said.  “What’s her name?”

“Nicole Samantha.”

Clint smiled at that.  He was smart and made the connection instantly.  “They saved Steve’s life.  Made it all possible, right?”

Natasha nodded.  She came closer, pulling her robe off one of the chairs and gingerly putting it on.  “They did.  But it was more than just that.  It’s…”  She faltered, looking at him apologetically.  “It’s hard to explain.  Sam’s Steve’s friend.  I didn’t even realize how much of a friend he’s been until now.”

Clint’s eyes clouded with thought, perhaps considering the mission they’d shared, and he nodded.  “He’s a good man.  A very good man.  We’re lucky to have him as an Avenger.”

“And Fury…  Well.”

“Well,” he agreed with a knowing smile.  Somehow that summed up everything the Director of SHIELD had done for the both of them.

“I wouldn’t be here without them.  And… I wouldn’t be here without you.”  She reached over and took Clint’s hand.  It was so familiar, the way his fingers felt.  Thick, callused from pulling back the string of his bow.  Warm.  Hands that had helped mold her into what she’d become.  Hands that had willingly washed themselves in blood in order to save her, save her husband, and save the world.  Hands that had saved her children.  “I owe you so much, Clint.”

He flushed, smiling but knowing where this was going and trying to stop her.  “Please don’t name your kid after me.  I was kidding.  I told you before, and I meant it.  I _hate_ my name and–”

“Would you be their godfather?”  Somehow it had been much easier to ask this in her head.  She took a deep breath, afraid of the answer even though she knew he would accept.  He just stared at her, like he couldn’t believe she wanted _him_ of all people to be _that_.  “Please.”

“I, uh…  Steve’s Catholic, right?  I’m not Catholic.”

“Neither am I.  And this isn’t about that.”  She struggled to find the words to express what she wanted of him.  “There’s no one I trust more than you to protect my children if something…  If anything ever happens to us.  There’s no one I trust more to take care of them, love them, help teach them and raise them to be better than we were.  Whatever we were before, you…  You’re my closest friend now.  You still know me in ways that no one else ever will.  You’ve done nothing but love me for who I am.  And I want you to be a part of their lives.  A big part.”  Clint hesitated a moment more, opening his mouth to object, and she knew what he was going to say before he even said it.  “So does Steve.”

It was silent a moment.  Clint stared at her like he, too, didn’t quite recognize her.  She waited, unreasonably afraid.  She wanted this.  She wanted it for him, for her family, for her children.  She’d told many lies in her life, even to Clint.  Now she wanted nothing more than for him to believe her.

Finally he nodded.  “Sure, Nat.  If you think it’s okay.”

The damn tears came again.  God, was she ever going to stop crying today?  “It is.  I know it is!”  She was hugging him again.

Clint wrapped his arms around her, squeezing tightly.  He laughed against her.  “How did you and I get here?”  The words were soft and breathless, not regretful in the least but certainly shocked.  “How did we find where we belong?”

Despite everything they’d done, the violence and evil in their pasts, how they’d lost themselves in that darkness, how they’d lost their way, lost SHIELD…  Despite all of that, they had been absolved of their sins.  Healed.  Restored.  Transformed.  No matter what they’d been, they were Avengers now.  And they had people who trusted and loved them.  It seemed impossible, but none of it had been.  “Everything happens for a reason, right?”

She’d never imagined he’d say something like that.  She pulled back, sniffling.  “You think so?”

He grinned and kissed her forehead.  “I know so.”

* * *

Steve was nervous.  He’d had the whole afternoon and part of the evening to work up the courage to do this, and he felt like he’d flittered it away uselessly.  Granted, it wasn’t like he’d had nothing to do.  That was pretty far from the case, in fact.  Caring for two newborns was a massive undertaking.  His initial terror was melting away in fits and starts; he wasn’t going to drop one or break one or make an irrecoverable mistake.  Everything really was okay.  They were healthy and strong.  Amazing, really.  But they were an incredible amount of work.  There was constantly one in need of something: diapering, dressing, feeding, or rocking.  He’d walked the length of the infirmary what felt to be a hundred times so far today, humming and shushing and patting a baby’s bottom.  They did sleep (occasionally), and they seemed comforted by sleeping with each other.  He’d noticed that last night, and he supposed it made sense; their whole little lives had been spent thus far cuddled together in a small space.  Still, they didn’t sleep _much_ (he didn’t know if that was due to the serum or if babies in general didn’t sleep), at least not much more than an hour at a time.  It was a constant cycle of waking, needing a new diaper, eating, and drifting off again.  He marveled at Natasha, awed at how she was adapting to it.  She was faring better than he was, in all honesty.  And on top of all that, he needed to explain to her that he’d bought a house, had it furnished and made ready for them, and that they were leaving to go home in an hour or so.

“Have you guys seen this?” Tony asked.  He was sitting in the Rogers’ suite, his socked feet up on their coffee table.  When Bruce had determined that everything was going _so_ well, that the twins were doing fine and Natasha was already amazingly recovered from the rigors of labor and childbirth, he’d decided there was really no reason they needed to spend more time in the infirmary.  Steve and Natasha had taken the twins back to their suite then, which was in upheaval with the latest round of gifts and things that had arrived.  Even more, the team had shown up barely a few minutes after they’d come back, bearing dinner in the form of pizza and beer.  Neither Steve nor Natasha had particularly felt up to the company, but they’d only shared a pained, resigned look and acquiesced.  After dinner had been vigorously consumed, Natasha had gone to change, and Steve was left with the others, tired and nervous about what he needed to do and trying to find a way to politely get rid of them.

Stark was flipping through the latest issue of _People_ magazine.  Steve got a glance at the cover where it was proclaiming in huge print: “MEET BLACK WIDOW: THE CAPTAIN’S WIFE SPEAKS OUT”.  The headline was alongside a picture of Natasha.  She was dressed nicely in front of Stark Tower, flanked by Maria Hill and Happy Hogan, talking to reporters.  _Talking to reporters._   There were other pictures as well, of him (he didn’t even know when this one had been taken – sometime during the Battle of New York?), of Natasha when she’d addressed Congress.  Another magazine sat on the table.  Another tabloid.  “BLACK WIDOW’S SECRET” it proclaimed, the front page advertising stories about the pregnancy.  _“Where she’s been while the Avengers have been fighting.”_   All sorts of speculation, from when she’d gotten pregnant to what the sex of the child was (these people didn’t even know they’d had twins).  Still more pictures, grainy and fuzzy, from the battle in Times Square.  The two of them embracing after he’d killed Omega Red and Lukin had been apprehended.  Steve’s arm was around Natasha’s shoulder as they walked out of the destroyed toy store, flanked by cops and the other Avengers.  There was a circle drawn on Natasha’s stomach, the little of it you could see where she was pressed to Steve.  Funny how no one had noticed then.  Hindsight and sensationalism.

Tony grunted a laugh.  He read aloud, saying, “It’s anyone’s guess at this point, but we’re putting our money on a boy, and his first outfit will be a mini-Captain America costume complete with his daddy’s iconic shield.”  He turned the page so they could see the example the magazine had obviously had made and photographed for the article.  “Aw.  Isn’t that adorable.”

Sam shook his head.  “Seriously?”  He glanced over at Steve’s actual shield where it was resting against the sofa.  “That’s just wrong.”

“And look!  ‘Possible names’.”  He pointed exuberantly to a brightly colored box with a list of monikers.  “Anthony, Jr. is on here!”

Steve shook his head, coming closer to see and having the feeling he was about to become the butt of a long, tiresome chain of jokes.  “It is not.”

Tony flattened the magazine against his chest, obscuring the article.  “Don’t want to have your choice unduly influenced by public opinion.”

“You’re so full of crap, Stark,” Sam said, shaking his head.  He reached over and slid his hand gently over Nicole’s head where she lay sleeping in Clint’s arms, smiling _gloatingly_ at Tony.

“Hey,” Steve warned.  “Language.”

Sam turned around to stare at him.  “Seriously, Cap?  They’re a day old.  They don’t know.”

“And they’re sleeping,” Tony added.

“There’s a growing body of scientific evidence suggesting that babies perform some language learning in their sleep,” Bruce neutrally added.  He didn’t look up from what he was reading, leafing lazily through what appeared to be a medical journal.

Steve couldn’t help a cheeky smirk at being right.  Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Where do they get all this stuff?” Clint wondered, looking over at the little baby Captain America outfit in the magazine.  Earlier that day Steve had returned from his shower to find Barton in the infirmary room, watching the twins and talking softly with Natasha.  At seeing that, something inside him had finally released, like a knot that had been wound tight for weeks had at long last been untied.  Natasha had told him that she’d asked Clint to be their godfather, and Clint had accepted.  Steve, in turn, had accepted that with a grateful hug, and for once Clint hadn’t stiffened or pulled away, simply embracing him back.  For the first time since New York, maybe, he felt he was on equal footing with the other man.  That they really understood each other.  Clint seemed lighter, free of his burdens maybe, and right then he was holding the baby like she was something he was going to cherish.  They all had.  All of the Avengers had taken a turn with the twins, even Tony.  It felt so oddly fulfilling to see that.  His team, _his family_ , marveling at his children.  Things had turned out this way for a reason – and thank God they had – but if the worst had happened, if Sam and Fury hadn’t brought back Bucky and he’d died…  He knew now more than ever before that Natasha and his children would be protected and loved.

That didn’t completely quiet his worries.  Nothing ever would, he supposed.  But it was a good start.

“I believe a great deal of it is fabricated,” Thor explained, drawing Steve’s attention back to the discussion about the tabloids.

“Really?” Tony asked in mock shock.  “Because here I thought it was true that Cap and Widow had a whirlwind and unexpected romance in Europe on an undercover op for SHIELD where you two had to pretend to be husband and wife!”

Steve balked.  “That’s ridiculous.  It definitely doesn’t say that.”

“Sure does.  If _People_ says it, it has to be real.  And I quote: ‘Their mission was to infiltrate a posh party in Paris for government secrets, but, secretly, she’d already infiltrated his heart.’”

“It does _not_ say that!” he insisted again, feeling his face grow hot.  With his son in his arms, it was hard to make a grab for the magazine.  And Tony moved surprisingly quick, dodging before he could get it.  Steve ground his teeth in frustration.  He was already feeling rattled enough, being ribbed for this crap notwithstanding.  “Don’t you guys have something better to do?”

“No,” Stark replied, going back to reading like it was the most important piece of journalism ever published.  “Nothing more important than this.”

“Natasha speaking to the press didn’t help to sweep anything under the rug, that’s for sure,” Sam said.  Steve skewered him with a glare now, not that he particularly knew much about any of that.  He’d seen the footage of her addressing the reporters.  Seen how beautiful and confident she’d been.  Heard what she’d said.  It was incredible, how much she’d changed.  “They’re practically camped out downstairs.  No way you’re going to get out of here without them seeing.”

Steve winced.  He’d known that, of course, that there was a flock of reporters outside the Tower.  Apparently they’d noticed people coming in the middle of the night last night, and that had been all they’d needed to come to conclusion that Black Widow was giving birth.  “I’ll have Happy punch a hole for you,” Tony said absently, licking his fingers before slowly turning the page of his magazine.  “By punching them in the face.  He used to box, so he can do it.”

“I would also be willing to make them disperse,” Thor added.  “Perhaps dousing them in a cold rain would teach them some manners.”

As palatable as that sounded, Steve couldn’t ask him to do that.  “It’s fine.”

“Would serve them right,” Clint added.

Bruce shook his head.  “It’s their nature.  They give the public what it wants.  And the public wants tabloid fodder,” he replied.  Then he realized what he said might be misconstrued.  “Not that your kids are tabloid fodder.”  Steve brushed aside his concerns.  “Just that people read stuff like this.  And it sells magazines.”  He shot Tony a knowing look.  “Case in point.”

“Hey, Pepper buys ’em.  Not my fault for reading what’s available.”

“Right.”

“You’ll rot your brain,” Natasha said as she exited their bedroom suite and strolled by.  She ripped the magazine right out of Stark’s hands and tossed it to the table.  “Wouldn’t want that to happen.  It’s your best attribute.”

“Ouch,” Sam said with a grin.

She smiled smartly at Tony, who appeared surprised into silence that she was back to snarking at him in that way only she could, that mixture of deadly threat and sly sweetness.  In a blink, the frazzled, first-time mother was gone, replaced by all the cool confidence of Black Widow.  Steve had seen it happen hundreds if not thousands of times since he’d met her on the helicarrier almost three years ago, but it never ceased to amaze him, how she could adapt and shift, how she could control a room.  She had showered, changed, and was dressed in loose warm-up pants and a sweater.  She looked comfortable, still a bit big around the waist, but the serum seemed to be helping even with that.  Her hair was gathered into a pony tail, and her make-up hid the bags under her eyes so well that he could hardly see them.  She was glowing, even more than before.  “You guys.  Out.”

“What’d we do?” Tony asked innocently.

_“Out.”_

The men shared a glance but made to follow her orders (of course they did – they knew what was good for them.  And Captain America might call the shots on the battlefield and in the command center, but here and now?  His wife was the one in charge).  Clint handed Nicole over to Natasha, kissed her on the cheek, and followed the others out the door.  Nicole stirred a little, but Natasha hushed her quietly, whispering, “Sleep, Nika.”

He couldn’t help his smile, watching her with her daughter.  He looked down at the boy, his red hair covered in a little cap, and drummed up his courage.  Now that they were alone, he wanted to get moving.  It was an hour long drive to Westchester, not counting rush hour traffic, and he didn’t want to get there too late.  He tried not to sound as nervous and excited as he felt.  “So I was wondering if you want to get out of here.”

Natasha looked up at him.  She quirked a smile, cocking an eyebrow.  “I think it’s a little late for you to take me on our last-hurrah date before the twins are born.”

He grinned.  God, why was he so pathetically worried about this?  It wasn’t as if she hadn’t _seen_ the house or known he’d wanted to buy it.  She’d even _told_ him to do it.  “I meant…  Do you want to go home?”

“Home?”

“Yeah.  Take them home.”

She stared at him, her expression confused and wondering.  He couldn’t help but wonder if she was faking it, if she knew.  Pepper had practically let the cat out of bag that morning, for crying out loud, and Natasha was smart.  It was extremely difficult to hide anything from her.  However, if she did know, she was hiding it well.  For his benefit, probably.  “Home.”

He stepped closer to her.  “Yeah.  Home.”

She eyed him critically, like she was trying to figure him out.  “What’s up with you, Rogers?  You’ve been acting strange all afternoon.”

He just smiled, leaning down to kiss her.  She tilted her face up, eager for it even if it was tired and not as passionate as they normally shared.  When they parted, he wrapped his arm around Natasha’s shoulders and pressed his lips to her forehead.  “Come on.  Let’s go.”

She said nothing, but she went to get the new outfits for the twins that Pepper had bought them.  This would be the first time they were dressed in actual clothes, and that seemed weirdly monumental.  Another exciting achievement just because it was _the first_.  It was quite a production to get them ready to go, they both soon discovered, and it took time and coordination.  Steve changed the little boy and got him ready while Natasha nursed Nicole.  Then Natasha dressed her while Steve gave their son a bottle.  Once they were both dry and feed, Natasha went about getting a couple of the many blankets they’d received.  Steve had JARVIS call down to Happy to let him know they were coming; he’d talked about this with Hogan before, so the other man was already ready.  Then he fetched the car seats.  He’d squared away a few minutes that afternoon (with Tony and Sam at his side) to figure out how these contraptions worked.  He’d never seen anything quite like it, and it had taken all three of them (one of whom was a technological genius, mind you) to get the straps and padding situated correctly.  He came into their bedroom carrying them and the diaper bags.

Natasha was standing in front of their bed, ready to go, dressed in long wool coat that was bulky and concealing enough to hide her figure and staring at the twins where they lay side by side on their bed.  Steve stared at her a moment, concerned at the hard lines of her shoulders.  “Nat?”

She turned, and all the confidence of before was gone again.  “Everyone will see if we go.  I heard Sam before.  The press is camped out in front of the Tower.”  Her voice was thick and quiet with trepidation.  It wasn’t just her previous unwillingness to be exposed, for the world to know she was pregnant.  This was the world seeing their children.  One small walk from the lobby to the car would be tantamount to a massive announcement.  There was no doubt about that.

Steve’s excitement was immediately tempered by her distress.  “It’ll have to happen sometime,” he reminded gently, setting all the stuff down at the foot of their bed and coming closer to her.  Carefully he set his hand on her shoulder.  Maybe this was a bad idea.  “Do you want to wait?  Or go out through the garage?”  She shook her head, and that more than anything told him she _wanted_ to stand up now and be who she was.  Deep down, at least.  On the surface, she was rattled.  “It’ll be okay.”

“You don’t know that.”

“We can’t hide them, Nat.  And we can’t lock ourselves away, either.  I don’t want to live like that.”  She didn’t say anything.  “I know this isn’t the way you wanted it to happen.  What you said to the media before, though…”  _I couldn’t have said it better myself._   He didn’t offer that up, though, afraid she’d find the sentiment patronizing. 

She frowned.  “I had to do that.  There was no choice.”

“And is there any here?  Why should we have to sacrifice our family because of what we do?  There’s nothing to be ashamed of.  They’re our kids.  And, yeah, everyone will see.  But so what?”

“Steve, it’s not that simple.  The world isn’t a safe place.”

“No, it’s not a safe place,” he agreed.  He took her other shoulder and turned her to face him.  “But when we walk out there, with our heads held high and our babies in our arms, we tell everyone, not just the press, _everyone_ that this is who we are.  They’re not going to hurt us or our family.  They’re not going to knock us down.”  He hoped he sounded surer than he felt.  He smiled as best he could, cupping her face.  “We can protect them.”

 _“You don’t know that,”_ she whispered again, reaching up to take his hands.

“Yes, I do.  I have to.  Whether or not we planned it, all of this happened.  They’re here, and there’s no going back.  I don’t _want_ to go back.  This is my family, and I want the world to know that I’m not afraid.”  In reality, he was.  He was terrified.  And so was she.  This was more than just new territory.  This was more than secrets spilled onto the internet or tabloid speculation.  This was breaking boundaries, confirming that they were married, that they had children.  _I’m not going to let my fear dictate my future._   He sighed.  “You were right about what you told me before.  There’s nowhere we can go where I’m not Captain America and you’re not Black Widow.  Our kids are _never_ going to have a ‘normal’ life, and that’s okay.  We can do the best we can, love them like we haven’t loved anything else, keep them safe and teach them right from wrong, _make_ their lives as wonderful as we want them to be.  We can still do that, and we will.  This is _who_ we are.  Why should we have to be anything other than that?”

She looked into his eyes, hers wet again and shining with doubt.  But she drew a deep breath and nodded.  “Okay.”

He nodded too, relieved beyond measure, and kissed her forehead again.  “Okay.”

It took a little doing to get the babies into the car seats.  Twin pairs of blue eyes watched him, alert and almost questioning, as he gently got them fastened inside.  Natasha just watched, too, though whether from her own uncertainty in dealing with the straps and buckles or from her anxiety about what was coming Steve couldn’t say.  When he was done, he grabbed his shield and slid it onto his back, the same as he always did.  Natasha relaxed slightly at seeing that.  He lifted a car seat by the handle in each hand.  He turned to his wife and smiled.  “Come on.  Let’s do this.”  _Let’s take this step.  This first._

She met his gaze, finding her strength before his very eyes again, and nodded.

The elevator took them down to the lobby.  They rode in silence.  When the doors opened, JARVIS calmly said, “Good luck, Captain Rogers.  Mrs. Rogers.”  Natasha didn’t even correct him, gazing out into the long shadows of twilight spreading across the street beyond.  Sure enough, the press was there.  And when they saw activity inside, cameras began flashing in earnest.  It was almost blinding.  She lifted her chin, gathered her bags, and strolled out of the elevator.  Steve followed.

Happy and a few Stark Industries security people were waiting at the glass doors.  Surprisingly (or maybe not, when Steve thought about it), Clint was there, too.  He pushed himself up off the wall near the doors.  “Thought I’d see you out,” he said.  “Play bodyguard if you need it.”

“Thanks, but I think I got it,” Steve said.  “But maybe you could watch the twins for a second while I take Nat out there?”

Natasha glared at him, but it was without its normal threat.  “I don’t need an escort.”

Steve was adamant.  He wanted to do this right.  And, no, she didn’t need an escort.  Or help.  Or protection.  But this was one moment, after all he’d been through over the last two weeks, where he wanted to do it right.  To be in control.  “I’m taking you out there and getting you in the car.  Then I’m coming back for them.  Please, just let me handle it?”  She acquiesced.  Thankfully.  With a grouchy smile, even.  Steve turned to Happy.  “Is the car ready?”

“Ready, Cap.”  The burly man handed Steve a set of keys.  “My guys will keep them back.  No worries.  And we’re ready to give you an escort away from the Tower.”

Steve nodded.  “Alright.”  Ahead there was indeed a path from the doors, across the sidewalk, and to the black Range Rover waiting for them at the curb.  Stark Industries security was lining the way, forming a barrier.  He took a deep breath and pulled Natasha close to him.  “Ready?”  She, too, centered herself before nodding.  Then he pushed opened the doors, and they were walking.

Immediately the already blinding and nearly constant flashing grew somehow worse.  A dozen questions were being yelled at them, and people were clapping, cheering, and shouting.  He’d kind of forgotten this wasn’t just the first time the babies would be seen.  This was the first time he and Natasha were being seen officially together and the first time he’d been seen after coming so close to dying.  He knew how much of a news story his collapse had become, but he hadn’t anticipated the magnitude of people gathered there to see him.  He tucked Natasha close to his side and chest, walking as briskly as he could.  Keeping his head held high like he’d promised wasn’t so easy.

“Captain!  Captain Rogers!  Have you completely recovered from your condition?”

“Can you tell us what happened to you?”

“Do you have any thoughts on what the President announced yesterday?”

“What about HYDRA’s continued threat to the world?  Do you have anything to say about that?”

“Are you ready to lead the Avengers again?”

“Ms. Romanoff!  Where’s the baby?  Did you give birth?”

Steve got to the passenger door, opened it, and Natasha slipped quickly inside.  He closed the door firmly and headed back to the Tower’s doors.  “Everybody back, please!” Happy roared.  “Give them some space!  Captain Rogers and Ms. Romanoff are not interested in answering questions at this time!”

Once inside the relative safety of the lobby, Steve crouched in front of the two car seats.  Clint stood protectively behind him, blocking the babies from the cameras.  The noise from outside was unbelievable, a steady blast of shouting and cheering against the bottom of the Tower.  “This is crazy!” the archer gasped.  “Props to you.  I…  I don’t think I could do this, have everyone know…”

“Don’t me make change my mind,” Steve returned with a weak laugh.  “We can’t hide forever.”  He pulled spare blankets up and over the top of the car seats, obscuring the twins’ faces.  Then he tucked the ends in tightly so it wouldn’t come loose if it was jostled.  His heart was pounding, and it was all he could do to take a deep breath.

“Steve.”  He turned and looked over his shoulder at Clint.  The archer smiled at him, reaching down a hand to help him stand.  Steve took his firmly and let the other man pull him up.  “You’ve got this.”

It wasn’t a question, and there wasn’t a lick of doubt in Barton’s voice.  “Yeah,” Steve answered.  “Yeah, I’ve got this.  Thanks, Clint.”

Clint smiled.  “Take care of them.”  He pulled Steve into another hug, patting his back as he did.  Steve was surprised for a second.  Everyone outside could see them, and the cameras were snapping pictures like crazy.  Then he hugged the other man back.  To hell with not letting them see.  This was his family, and Clint was his kids’ godfather.  Maybe a brother to him in some ways.  Like Sam and Tony and Thor.  Bucky wasn’t there – couldn’t be there – but this was good, too.  Like when he’d gotten married, this was enough.  And he didn’t care if everyone knew it.

They pulled away after a moment.  Clint sniffled, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes.  “Hey, mind if I come by tomorrow?  I’d like to see the babies, if that’s okay.”

Steve smiled.  “Sure.  Anytime you want.  You’re always welcome.”

Clint nodded, grinning himself.  “Thanks.”

Steve gave him a final look, so grateful that he was here, _home safe_ , before picking up the car seats.  Happy held open the door and guided him outside.

If the noise before had been overwhelming, _this_ was positively _deafening._   The cheering ramped up to the point where it hurt even his ears.  He kept a firm grip on the handles of the car seats, possessive and protective, as he quickly made his way to the SUV.  Questions were being screamed at him.

“Is that two babies?”

“Twins?  Oh, wow!”

“What are they?  Boys or girls?  Or both?”

“What’re their names?  Come on, Cap!  Just tell us that!”

“When were they born?”

“Captain!  Captain!  Please, just one question!”

One of the security guys opened the back passenger door, and Steve slid the first car seat into place into the base in the back.  He checked it quickly to make sure it was secure before going around the back of the car and into the street.  He pulled open the other door and snapped the second seat into position.  Both rear doors were slammed shut.

“Do you know if they inherited the super soldier serum from you?”

“Was this something you and Black Widow planned?  Or was it a surprise?”

“Don’t you think it sets a bad example to get someone like Black Widow pregnant?”

He jetted to the driver’s door, pulling it open.  The waning sunlight caught the shining surface of his shield as he pulled it from his back and handed it to his wife.

“Captain, please!  What are their names?  Will they take your last name?”

“Will you still lead the Avengers?”

“How can you be Captain America now?”

That one made Steve stop just as he was about to get into the driver’s seat.  He looked across the sea of reporters.  Fans.  Even protestors.  People who didn’t know him beyond the mantle of Captain America.  People who supported him, revered him, despised him, or feared him.  They all had one thing in common.  _The world needs the Avengers._ “I can be Captain America because that’s who I am.  That’s who I’ll always be.  No matter what happens, I’ll fight if I need to.  No matter how hard I get knocked back down, I’ll get back up.  So long as there’s danger in our world, I’ll do whatever I can to protect people.  That’s a promise.”  The crowd had quieted, watching him.  “But I’ll protect my family, no matter what.  That’s just as much of a promise.  I’m a father and a husband.  When I went into the ice, I thought my chances of being those things, of having what I have now, were gone forever.  Natasha’s the one who showed me that there’s always a way to find what you’ve lost.  A way to start over.  There’s no one in this world who I’d rather spend the rest of my life with than her.  And there’s no one I trust more to be the mother of our children.”  The crowd was still silent, stunned a little perhaps.  Steve felt something brush against his hand.  Natasha pulled his fingers to hers, squeezing gently.  He squeezed back while he looked over the group of people.  He took another deep breath.  “We’re Avengers.  We’ll be here when you need us.  But right now I’d like to take my family home.  Please.”

That was that.  He gave the quiet group a final nod, sat down behind the wheel, and closed the door.  The keys clenched in his hand found their way into the ignition, and the engine rumbled to life.  He breathed a moment, holding his head high, and looked over at his wife.  She was watching him, her eyes deep and dark with love.  Her pink lips curled into a smile.  “My hero,” she teased in that way she did when she really meant what she was saying but didn’t know how else to say it.

He exhaled a breath he’d been holding.  “Yep.”  Then he lifted her hand where it was still intertwined with his and kissed her knuckles.  “Ready?”  She nodded.  He kissed her hand one more time before letting go.  She set it atop his shield where it rested on her lap.  And he grabbed the gear shift, put the car into drive, and headed onward down the road.  A new road.  The first step of so many they’d take upon it.  Something came to him then.  Natasha’s voice.  A foggy memory from when he was sick.  A dream, maybe.  He couldn’t remember which, and it didn’t matter.  “Wherever it takes us, right?”

She smiled and nodded.  “Yeah.”

_Wherever it takes us._

* * *

It was completely dark by the time they reached their neighborhood.  The night was heavy and cold, the first day of spring belied (as it typically was) by winter’s lingering embraces.  Steve pulled down the long, secluded driveway, the headlights of the SUV slicing through the blackness.  Ahead the house – _their_ house – was waiting.  A few of the lights were on, likely left by the movers and decorators.  They were soft and welcoming, dispelling a great deal of apprehension.  He stopped the car right in front of the porch, pulling parallel to it on Natasha’s side so she wouldn’t have to walk as far.  She’d dozed on and off during the drive from the city to the suburbs, but now she was very much awake, watching everything with wide eyes that were teeming with equal parts excitement and uncertainty.  The twins had been quiet too, leaving Steve pretty well alone with his thoughts for most of the ride.  He actually hadn’t thought much, and it was nice.  Nothing felt quite real right now, like his brain wasn’t processing things correctly.  But that was okay.  They had all the time in the world to get used to this.

He shut the car off and opened his door.  Chilly air hit him, but he took a deep breath of it, finding the cold refreshing for once.  Natasha got out as well.  The woods around them were quiet, the trees old, wise sentinels guarding their little section of the world.  It was peaceful but a little eerie at the same time.  Again, not quite real.  Above, the moon shone down on them, pale and serene.  There was not a sound anywhere save for the trees shifting in the slight breeze and the swish of the lake behind the house.  This felt far from the city.  Far from the chaos and danger.  Far from the lives they led.  A small, secret sanctuary.  Someplace safe and just theirs.  _Home._

Together they got the twins out of the back of the car.  Steve took his shield back and carried both the car seats while she gathered their bags.  Eager to get the babies out of the cold, he walked quickly up the porch, the wood creaking under his weight, and set one baby down to fish the keys out of his pocket.  Sliding one into the lock, he opened the front door.  It was dark but warm inside.  He set the two car seats down in the foyer, Natasha tentatively following him.  “Wait,” he said, and he came back and swept her carefully up and into his arms, bridal style, to carry her over the threshold.

She laughed into his neck.  “You’re outrageous.”

“Call me old-fashioned,” he declared, holding her tighter in the darkness.

She lifted herself up more, hooking her arms around his neck.  “Old-fashioned,” she teased before kissing him.  This one went longer, deeper, brimming with love and so much joy.  She clung to him, sliding her fingers tightly through his hair to keep his mouth to hers.

Steve basked in this, shivering a little in relief.  “We made it,” he whispered in between kisses.  “We made it.”  They were here.  He was here.  It was almost too much to believe.

Eventually he set her back down onto her feet, laughing a little when she found herself a bit wobbly.  He ventured forward in the shadows, searching for the light switch.  When he found it and flipped it on, golden illumination spread through the area, revealing the living room, the kitchen, and the dinette.  They were newly painted, polished, and completely furnished.  Pepper and Tony had approached him about this yesterday before the babies had been born, and he’d gone ahead and agreed because he didn’t have time to do it and he wasn’t about to turn down help (at least, not right now – one the parenting articles he’d read said that.  _Don’t turn down any help whatsoever_ ).  Pepper had promised to make sure everything was perfect, and she certainly had.  And she’d anticipated his tastes pretty well.  Things were simple not showy, nice but not extravagant.  Warm colors and appropriate accents (not that he knew anything about decorating, but he thought they were appropriate, little splashes of brighter tones and hues here and there).  He’d asked her to keep the price tag under control, not entirely comfortable with accepting a gift like that, but…  “They must have spent tens of thousands,” he mumbled.

“They?” Natasha asked, standing with Nicole in her arms as they beheld the house.

“Tony and Pepper. I know it’s a drop in the bucket to them, but…  God.  They wanted to take care of getting the house ready for us, and…”  He sighed.  She seemed nonplussed, evenly appraising everything like she’d forgotten to act surprised.  “You knew about this, didn’t you.”

Caught, she lifted a coy eyebrow.  “Stark has no willpower.  I broke him down.”  Steve shook his head in confusion.  “He blurted it out like an idiot first thing this morning.”  He laughed a little, but mostly he was just disappointed.  And she realized it right away.  She came closer and reached up to cup his cheek.  “I love it.  I love that you took care of this.”

“You do?” he asked.  He might have trusted her to the ends of the earth and loved her more than anything, but he still had a hard time anticipating her opinions, particularly concerning things like this.  “Because we can change it.  I just wanted to have things ready for you.  You took care of me, and now you’re taking care of them, and I just wanted to make something nice.”  The slight glimmer of wetness in her eyes was enough to convince him he’d done well.  Just like that, her moods shifted.  He pulled her closer so that his shoulder muffled her sob.  “Oh, love.”

“I can’t stop crying,” she moaned piteously.  “Everything makes me cry!”  He tried not to smile (and failed).  He thought he kept his laugh under control.  Apparently not.  “Don’t laugh at me!”

“I’m not!  I’m not.”

She pulled away, pushing him lightly, and took Nicole upstairs.  Steve looked around a final time, liking what he saw, breathing deeply and feeling _at home_ , before he switched off the lights, got their son out of his car seat, and followed her.

Everything on the second floor was as new, immaculate, and expensive as the first.  Two of the bedrooms had been converted into nurseries, one painted pink and decorated with butterflies and the other blue and adorned with cars.  Steve stood at his son’s room, looking over the assembled dark brown crib and changing table, the armoire, the toys and stuffed animals, the glider…  Plush Captain America, Iron Man, and Thor dolls sat there, staring at him like they were waiting.  He gave a surprised chuckle at that, walking across the moonlit room to pick them up.  He picked _himself_ up, shaking his head.  It was embarrassing, but somehow it was equally touching.  _Captain America in his son’s nursery._ This silly thing made that seem _right,_ made it right to be Captain America.  This was more than just what he wanted.  More than just possible.  It was the _best_ he could do.  He set them back down and headed down the hallway toward the master suite, which was decorated with tans and creams.  Some of their things had already been moved here.  He set his shield down, keeping a tight hold on the baby (it was second nature now, honestly), and turned around slowly, taking it all in.  It was nice.  So nice.

As excited as they were about the house, though, it was late, and they were tired.  They went about getting ready for bed, one taking the twins so the other could change into pajamas and then switching.  Natasha carried their son into his room and Steve took Nicole.  He found the drawers of her dresser fully stocked with _everything_ they could _possibly_ want.  Marveling at that, he easily located diapers and changed her out of her “coming home” outfit and into a sleeper.  Then he got a bottle and sat with her in the glider.

It was dark and quiet.  So quiet.  Even the chair was silent as he gently rocked.  He got the bottle into her mouth, and she drank happily.  “We’re getting this down, aren’t we?” he whispered, pleased with himself.  She sucked louder, and he smiled.  After watching her for a bit, he closed his eyes.  He was exhausted, but being tired had never felt so rewarding.  “I’ve got this, Nikki,” he whispered when she was done.  He set the bottle aside and lifted her.  She was gazing at him sleepily, staring into his eyes, watching him watch her.  “I’ve got this.”  She squirmed.  “Want a lullaby?”  She burped softly.  He laughed.  “I’ll take that as a yes.”  He resettled her soft, purple blanket and cuddled her up to the bare skin of his shoulder and neck around his A-shirt.  He hummed and rocked, the melody an old Gaelic song his mother had sung to him when he’d been little.  Tummy full, warm and snuggled, it didn’t take long at all for her to fall asleep.  He went on, though, dozing himself for what felt like a long time, and his own low voice fading away was what woke him up.  Blinking to get himself more alert, he carefully pulled her away from him as he stood and went to her bed.   Then he set her down on her back, watching her sleep.  His heart swelled.  “I promise I’m going to take care of you,” he swore.  He gently caressed the softness of her blonde hair.  “Always.”

Somehow he ended up back in the hallway.  He was so fatigued that he got lost a moment, heading to their bedroom by accident but then continuing anyway to see if Natasha was in there.  She wasn’t, so he plodded quietly back toward the baby boy’s room.

 He stopped.  Something about this…  This scene, this moment…  Like a dream.  Or a memory.  His muscles tingled and his heart stopped in his chest and he could hardly breathe.  He’d seen this before.  The past.  His future.  Another place, another time.  Another life.

A quiet, dark room in a house.  A woman in a rocking chair.  Everything slowed for one peaceful, perfect moment as she rocked.  Back and forth.  Back and forth.  The beat of his heart.  She turned, so very beautiful.  Natasha.  She looked tired but happy.  Her eyes met his, hers aglow with contented tears.  “Come here,” she whispered.  “Come here and see your son.”

Pride and love, so much love, burst through him, and he went to her.  This was _his_ life.  The life he was supposed to have.  Their house.  Their marriage.  Their babies.  He was her husband.  She was his wife.  He couldn’t imagine having anything else.  Loving anyone else.  Being any place else.  He was exactly where he was meant to be.

He pulled himself from the moment as he walked silently across the room, dropping to a crouch beside Natasha in the chair.  Her shoulder was bare in the moonlight, perfect skin soft under his callused fingertips.  The baby was nursing, and she was radiant with happiness.  Steve watched her a moment, watched the newborn, let it all take his breath away.  “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice shaking with the force of the reverence he felt.  He swept her hair away and kissed the skin under it.  “You both are.  So beautiful.”

“You think so?”

“I’ve never been so sure about anything.”  Her grin was sheepish, bashful, and she turned to watch their son again.  It was silent a moment while the baby finished, suckling slowing and then surrendering to sleep.  Natasha gently pulled free, wiping his little mouth that curled in what Steve could only call a smile.  “Did you think of a name?”

“Yes,” she responded after a breath.  Steve looked at her expectantly.  She, too, smiled.  “James.” She brushed the backs of her fingers over the baby’s cheek.  “James Steven.”

Steve couldn’t think for a moment, uncertain he’d heard correctly, before finally reclaiming his mind enough from such a state of pure shock to shake his head.  “Nat, are you sure?”  He knew how she felt about Bucky.  He knew how much Bucky had hurt her and how much she feared, loathed, and resented that.  He knew, and he didn’t want her to do this for him.

But she was sure.  “He saved your life.”  She met his gaze again.  “He helped you become the man you are.  I want to honor that.”  Steve couldn’t believe it.  His heart filled with so much, joy and relief and gratitude, that it hurt.  “And I want to honor you.”

Never, _never_ , had he envisioned he could feel this complete.

There was a little peel of a cry from down the hall.  “Here,” Natasha said.  She handed James to him, pushing herself out of the glider with a tired wince.  “I’ve got her.”

Steve tucked James to his chest.  “I can take care of her.  You should rest.”

“No, it’s fine.”  She turned to go.

He couldn’t let her leave him.  Suddenly it was too much.  So much.  “Natasha.”  She turned, the moonlight washing over her.  There were no words to describe how she looked, dressed in flowing white, eyes colorful and bright, hair lush and thick down her slender shoulders.  Vibrant and powerful.  Divine, even.  Ethereal.  “I…  I can’t ever tell you how much I love you.  I can’t.  And I’m sorry because you deserve to know.  You deserve everything I can give you.  More than I can give you, and I want to tell you that, but I don’t know how.  There’s just…  I can’t…”

“Shhh,” she whispered, coming back to wipe away the tears he hadn’t realized he was crying.  “I know.”

He kissed her desperately.  Trying to tell her.  Trying to _show_ her.  “ _Ya tvoja._ ”

She smiled into his lips, kissing him now, and such soft splendor enveloped him.  “I know.”  She slipped out of the room and down the hall, silent and graceful, and he was alone.

It was quiet again.  So very still.  In that stillness, he seemed to feel _everything_.  The breeze blowing through the trees outside.  The moon’s pale presence.  The air in his lungs, the blood in his veins.  The strength in his hands and the power of his soul.  The child against his chest, skin to skin and heart to heart.  He sat carefully in the glider and looked down at him, at James.  This tiny creature that had already changed his life forever.  His son.  _My son._

Steve pulled James close, as close as he could.  He kissed his forehead as he slept.  “Hey, little guy,” he whispered.  There was no answer, of course, but that was okay.  “You’ve got your mother’s fire.  I can see that already.  Don’t ever lose that.  And the man you’re named for?  He has fire, too.  He’ll find it again.  I know he will.  Someday… someday you’ll meet him.  And he’s going to love you.”  He could almost feel Bucky’s hand on his shoulder, that crooked smile on his face he always had when he was trying not to cry.  _He’s amazing, Stevie.  They both are._   “Someday.”

There was nothing more than this.  Nothing better.  Nothing more he could want.  Watching them grow.  Watching them learn.  Watching them love.  “I’m going to be there for everything.”  He would be.  He was alive, and this was where he was meant to be.  He’d be there for every step.  Every word.  Every success and failure.  Every moment.  _Everything._

Nothing would take him away.  _Nothing._

He breathed deeply, closing his eyes and holding James tighter. “And I promise I’m going to be there for you,” he said.  “Always.”

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. What a journey that was, huh? Some 400 pages and 290k words later, we're at the end. It was a long, hard road, and I'm so glad and thankful you stuck with me. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. And I hope you enjoyed this series. It's been a blast.
> 
> As always, special thanks to E, my tireless beta-reader. Also thanks to the Romanogers fans here, on Twitter, and on tumblr, especially MissAdoration. You guys make my day all the time. Special thanks to korvik93, my always helpful sounding board for this series! Thanks to Nerdman3000 for helpful suggestions and research on the Strucker family. And, of course, thanks to all of you who read this story (and all of its predecessors) and commented on it. I can't tell you how much I appreciate your support! Truly I am blessed with a wonderful group of readers.
> 
> The lovely [mrsbarnes1o7](http://mrsbarnes1o7.tumblr.com//) made some beautiful cover art for this story. Check it out:
> 
> And the amazing [missingthebetterhalfofme](http://missingthebetterhalfofme.tumblr.com) put together these absolutely gorgeous and inspired collages based on the Rogers family:
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://thegraytigress.tumblr.com)!


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